


Let it Split Me

by rabiosareads



Series: A Saturated Sunrise [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, No use of y/n, Romantic Fluff, Secret Crush, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, mentions of trauma, more tags to be added as story progresses!, soft din is experiencing soft things and i'm here for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24638983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabiosareads/pseuds/rabiosareads
Summary: After a tricky bounty that's still active, becoming a pseudo-father, and the galaxy after him, our fated bounty hunter lands in Dantooine after Sorgan was proven to be a bust. Residing in a village two rotations outside the capital, he finds his next challenge: the object of his affection, welcoming him with curious intelligence and a basket of jogan fruit.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: A Saturated Sunrise [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748806
Comments: 32
Kudos: 39





	1. The Haunting Beskar

**Author's Note:**

> This is pre-Sweet Supernova! 
> 
> (maybe one day I will learn how to write a linear storyline)  
> (don't tell my literal ba in writing that though)

“I have a secret bounty for you, Mando. I’m not trying to play favorites here in the Guild but you came to mind immediately when I received it.”

Mando’s head slightly leans to the right to show interest. The sunset on Nevarro was warming against his cool beskar. A gradient flush of russet orange and chickadee bloomed on his chipped armour, slivers of its rays cutting through the sharp ends of his visor. His lower back ached from the last bounty’s struggle so he leaned in towards Greef Karga’s lazy sprawl, trying to alleviate the strain that crept up from the base of his hips to shoulder blades. The bounty was more of a fighter than a talker; for the silent gunslinger it was a change of pace from the ones that seem to try and use their scrambled words to pry themselves away from his grasp. However this one offered straight shots to his liver and ribs instead of promises of endless Imperial credits or false amounts of beskar, so he was left to drag himself towards the cantina, hiding the aches between modulated sighs. Greef saw his sudden interest and quipped his brow, reaching into his pocket. He slammed the tracking fob onto the table, creating ripples in his amber ale. He tapped the surface to trigger the hologram that he dragged out as well.

“This guy is a slippery one,” Greef sneered, somewhat proud. “From what I’ve gathered he's a spice runner for many wealthy clients on Kessel, transporting his goods throughout the Outer Rim.”

“Spice runners are as common as it comes,” he retorted. Greef raised his hand in defense.

“That’s the thing, Mando, it’s all a front. Especially when you’re dealing with an ex Imperial general, one that worked and betrayed the Empire in the same breath.”

That certainly peaked the Mandalorian’s interest. He twitched his head upwards, studying the way Greef’s face contorted into a slick smirk. He twirls his drink in his hand, watching the liquid ripple on the curved edges, then taking a slow, loud slip. He smacked his lips and nodded at his comrade's silence, interpreting it as unspoken interest.

“Rumor is that he worked in the advanced weapons and technology sector of his department. Some say he worked on the Death Star but that can’t be neither confirmed nor denied. Regardless while working for the Galactic Empire he began to smuggle and sell advanced Imperial weapons to collectors and wealthy alliances around the galaxy. After the fall he’s just a simple spice runner.His name is Dario Creed. Started off as working as a middle man for the Pyke Syndicate, paid off his debt with them, now works independently. ”

“Who requested the bounty?” Mando leaned back, propping an arm on top of the booth with a dull _thud._ Greef followed the same movement and brought back the cup to his lips.

“A representative of the clan. His bounty is a hefty one.”

“Hefty?”

“The _biggest_ bounty you’ve ever seen. Credits that’ll last you for months, even years if you really count your credits right.”

Well, that sounded too good to be true. He would take four to five bounties at a time, going months upon months of scraping by with cheap portions of soggy bread and mashed Bantha meat, so hungry that he would scoop his tongue on every edge of the metal plate. By the time that he would finish, he was covered in new and deep ruby cuts, limping to the same booth on the same planet to collect the same universal credits to only repeat the process over again. This, however, sounded like something he needed; financial security and a taste of an actual break, landing on some off world planet to stretch his legs long and smell some actual fresh air. He bounced his hand on his knee, feeling the smooth metal across his leathered fingertips. He picked up his hand to pull the puck towards him but Greef stopped him, slapping the tip of his fingers. 

“Don’t tell anyone else in the Guild about this one, I saved him just for you,” he winked, letting his hand go when Mando jerked it back towards him. “Don’t forget you’re my favorite bounty hunter.”

If only Greef Karga could see the snarl of Mando’s upper lip at his incredulous comment. 

* * *

Dario Creed was, indeed, as Greef put it, a slippery one.

He had wasted gallons and gallons of fuel bouncing around the Outer Rim in search of this curiously tricky bounty. It was frustrating and mocking of his professional behavior to say the least, however understandable in some ways. The man was a known Imperial engineer, something as basic as a tracking fob was mere child’s play to manipulate around. He would bounce between different systems, by the time that Mando would settle the _Razor Crest_ at a docking bay and transfer credits to the attending droids he was off somewhere else, leaving him a few credits lighter and a shortened fuse. 

Maybe it was due to the fact that he was used to catching bounties in the blink of an eye. It was an understatement to say that he wasn’t cocky about his talent; Mando knew for an absolute fact he was the best in the parsec. He would smirk underneath his helmet at certain moments in his career, such as the time he flipped a Rodian spice runner on his back in the middle of a busy alleyway with one arm or when he managed to fight four men at the same time with a jammed blaster and sharp dagger. It was an adrenaline rush that he couldn’t kick, sweeter than any spice high that could be chased and twice as deadly. The slip of the mind was thin and flowing, as easily as the wind at times, only for the kickback to remind him that this was _not_ who he was anymore.

Who he was, well, would remain unspoken.

His frustration was getting to the best of him, however, letting it fester in his belly along with his anticipation. Being a hunter, patience is key. It was easy to pick prey off of other bounty hunters like vultures, plucking at the feathers of the carcass and at each other, but where’s the fun in that? Where is the arousal of the chase, skin prickling at the thought of the endgame? Mando wasn’t the type to rush things but in all honesty, he was beginning to entertain the idea of it.

So it brought him to the Core Worlds, to Hosnian Prime. An obvious location, to him it could be considered mockery. _He’s finally settling down on an old spice route?_ Mando scoffed while shoving credits into the droid’s currency box. The tracking fob was still blinking its lights, a relief on his conscious that he didn’t pay the ridiculous rate for nothing, so he loaded up on his blasters, strapped his amban blaster, and hoped to Maker that he would at least get a good look at the weasel.

There were still hints of the Empire on Hosnian Prime. Torn propaganda posters stained clay bricks, carved symbols of their hellish reign staining the material. Although Mando weaved through the crowd seamlessly he noticed the ambience to have that same thickness as on any other one that was impacted by the war, the tense crowd huddled in the same smog that they left behind. He was sure, albeit a place like Hosnian Prime has seen its fair share of controversial figures, that he would draw attention to himself, however the crowded plaza was littered with lowered eyes, afraid to catch themselves in his beskar reflection. He was used to crowds parting for him, as if he secreted a supernatural aura to him, so this kind of forced ignorance was comforting in a sense. Sometimes the stares would carry on too long, itching just a bit too deep on his bitter days, but this fucking Dario Creed was digging in just a touch deeper.

The fob stayed clutched in his palm. He kept peeking at the glowing red light pulsating behind his tight grip, his spine straightening when the flashes were more frequent. His movement was quicker, heavier, as the light picked up its pace, turning left at the end of a marketplace, right by a pawn shop, to a--

_A pleasure house._

At first he contemplated setting up a nest where he could wait and watch, at least try to guess where this bounty was, but this entire operation was such a painful hassle that it would only exasperate his patience to a translucent line across his forehead, already pulsating into a growing migraine. All to just avoid any embarrassing encounters. Heat crept up his body, expressing his strain with a heavy sigh, pushing his slight shame away through the beaded doors. 

A bell rang for his arrival. The lobby was oddly quiet, however it was still daytime and the pulsating groove of jazz music looped over and over again at the end of a hall. The area was split up in three passages, each decorated with heavy beads, chipped golds, teals, and pinks swaying from the central air. In the middle of all three halls sat a throne, decorated with a velvet plum cushioning, buttons and skeleton painted a bright gold brilliance. He shifted awkwardly when the middle passageway erupted with the music, gulping heavily at a woman swaying towards him.

She was small in stature, cobalt blue hair pulled back into a tight bun. Mando relaxed when he realized she was the owner of the pleasure house, judging from her arms and neck heavily decorated with gold jewelry. Her paper thin lips are pulled back into a sickly sweet smile, rehearsed and curious, keeping her beady eyes focused on the rounded curve of his helmet.

“What brings a Mandalorian to Rushia’s Pleasure Palace? Need to blow some steam, bounty hunter? You’ve come to the right place--”

“I’m looking for someone.” his answer was clipped and tight. She huffed as she reached in her dress pocket, pulling out a black pipe. The wrinkles around her eyes squeezed together when she raised it to her lips, long red fingernails scraping around for a light. Mando erected his back when she lit it, taking a long and heavy drag, letting the smoke bleed out her nostrils as if she ate fire. 

She pursed her lips and shrugged. “You have a specific girl in mind? I’ve never seen you around here…”

“I’m not here for a _girl,_ ” he drawled out, coughing a bit. “I’m looking for a man, Dario Creed.”

“You come to a pleasure house for a bounty?! Either you are a fool or you do not listen to your _blaster_ enough.” she pointed at his pelvis with her eyes before cackling, the smoke cracking against her shrill voice. He remained firm but the slime of shyness slipped down his throat.

“If you tell me that he’s still here I can pay you well for your help,” he cocked his head, taking notice at the right passageway’s beads rocking a bit quicker. “Have you seen him?”

Her laughter died down to a small chuckle. She inhaled her pipe once more, the smoke now swirling out the corners of her mouth, swallowing her heart shaped face with a quick blanket. She walked towards Mando, taking sluggish steps, her kitten heels dragging and quipping a sharp click with every step. She stopped in front of him and tapped her pipe on his chest.

“How much is his bounty?” she sharply inquired. Mando watched her grey eyes sparkle in a devious nature, but admitting to himself that she had a damn good poker face.

“I’d say it’s a pretty good amount.”

“What do you consider pretty good?”

“Would pay for you and your girls to completely redo your entire image twice over.”

“Hmm, that is _pretty good._ How did you know that me and my girls are of quality? That we relish in the finer things that Hosnian Prime can offer?”

“I can tell by the way you carry yourself.” _Kriff._

Her cheeks bloomed. His stomach, on the other hand, bloomed with bile. She waved her pipe at him, clutching it between her teeth. “No one has made old Rushia blush like that since that Togruta thought I was the top prize. Come come, let me see if that man is here.”

She grunted as she propped a large book on her hip that was kept behind the throne, setting it on top of a desk. Mando cocked his hip to the side and rested his hand on his blaster as she opened it with a huff. 

“We,” she began, cursing as the deteriorating pages stick together. “are very old in our record keeping. The Empire was so caught in their data being compromised when they came to my home so we used aliases. Sometimes the old is better than the new, no?” she winked.

“Yes.” Mando gritted at the newest revelation. Her nails skipped along each name, clicking her tongue until she gasped at the very bottom of the page. 

“I do not have a Dario Creed on my list, but like I said they used aliases. I have an Adonis here, he was the last one to rent a room here. If you show me his image I can confirm for you. He booked a booth for tonight as well, maybe you should do the same, Mandalorian…”

“May I… rent some lodging here tonight?” his teeth grind against the edge of the question. She quipped a brow at his clenched fists and nodded.

“Of course you can. Sans company, I presume?” She searched her other pocket for a pen.

“Safe presumption.” he tried to joke against his own will. If he kept milking the woman’s affection for him, the quicker this tedious mission would end. She handed him the pen.

“Create your new identity, my sweet Mandalorian. Take that risk.”

* * *

The club was so dimly lit that the only remaining light, blue white and dull, barely reflecting off of his chestplate. He sat back, legs sprawled open yet locked in his knees, keeping his eyes forward. The jazz music has faded away into a more energetic tempo, lively beats contrasting against the lowlights of the area. It was perfect, he thought, concealing his otherwise vulnerable image. He kept his hand at the base of his blaster, twirling his finger around the rounded base, taking in a big breath of air. There was a heavy film of jasmine and ylang ylang, circling above him from the slow rolling fans, traveling up from the small slit below his chin. Although it was heavy in the atmosphere it did relax him quite a bit, reminding him that all he needed was an easy, very easy, roll of patience to roll off his bones. 

His body continued to stiffen in the corner, cramped by the stiff stool underneath him. If he sat in the middle where there were open buffet length tables, there would be too many obstacles to break down. If he sat in a booth, maybe one towards the exit or near the small island they called a bar, it would delay his execution into a slower slur. He had to settle himself on this stool then, cursing at the armour indenting his lower back, digging into the groove of his raised hips.

With the plethora of women walking around, it sure didn’t make it easier either.

He was used to them crying, begging, tempting him even for their lives before he threw them into carbonite. He was surely used to the stares, the curious tilt of their head as they tried to figure out what is going in one ear and out the other, their tongues slipping out their mouths to lick the dry patches of their lips, used to their lingering suggestives hanging in front of his eyes like sugared temptations to lure the tricky bounty hunter.

Maybe, in his past life, so cunning, looser and sharper tongue against his retorts, he would’ve entertained their company for the night. To let him rush through his tempting beskar, drunk off of the mystifying identity behind the visor, claw at any piece of cloth that may cling onto their skin and rub uncomfortably, igniting a spark deep in their belly to taste something they can never have the honor of knowing. It was a wild desire, for him to release himself in the darkness of dusty cantina halls and hostels, but never made the deep slit in his chest disappear fast enough, only allowing the cut to split open just a bit wider, just a bit deeper, until he could no longer let the adrenaline influence his craft any longer. 

It became much harder to be satisfied. To fulfill the craving that drilled at his molars with bittersweet dissonance. To occupy his mind when his body was too numb to function over the sting, the scraping nails that made him hiss into the thick air of the _Razor Crest,_ incredible in its disparity and lack of control. He didn’t want to linger on it too long, pushing it back to the pit of his belly where his kidneys laid, letting the venom seep into his bloodstream.

If he ignored it long enough, it would go away, right?

As time went on, the crowd began to expand with groups of men, high off their testosterone and dopamine, goggling at the sight of their own slice of heaven. They were so intoxicated off of their entertainment and spiced rum that they hadn’t noticed Mando, still as a statue, visor concealed by the darkness. _Perfect._

It was getting too crowded for his liking, however. _No matter,_ he thought, shifting his right leg to prop up on the bottom and roll his ankle onto the floor. He reviewed the bounty’s appearance in his head once more, eyes focused on two men arguing over who gets to take the blonde first, her seafoam green eyes spelling out boredom to the bartender.

Dario Creed was of average height for a humanoid, a bit shorter than Mando. Judging from the hologram he held some muscle on him, shoulders rounded and firm. His hair was gunmetal silver, shaved to the skin at the sides and left a gathering at the top where it was pulled back into a loose ponytail. But what was more distinguishable, at least to his mind, was his stare. It was wicked, deeply seeded in his own hatred and selfishness, icy even through the distorted hologram. One of his eyes was milky white, a deep curling upwards on his temple, around the curve of his skull, dipping to the back of his ear. Rumor was that the Empire gave him that scar, in an attempt to kill him before the fall, others say from a Jedi’s lightsaber. Either way the story remained with the same ending: face covered in cranberry blood, the sweet smell of singed flesh and a most despicable smile, curling at the dip of his canines and tongue lapping at laughter.

 _What a sight to see._ Mando sighed, sinking deeper in his seat.

The crowd parted in the middle. The music, still lulling in its picked up tempo, matched the suddenly strobe lights, flashing Mando’s slacked body. He blinked rapidly behind his compromised vision, trying to relax his vision from the sudden attack on his senses. A figure, so swole it filled the entire room, its presence almost floating across the linoleum floor, towards _him._

First his calves, then the meat of his thigh, covered in black, tight and faded over time, curving to the dip of his waist, the roll of his biceps underneath layers upon layers, until the lights hinted at his stoic face. Lips were pulled down in an intimidating frown, pale in comparison to his sun kissed face, until his eyes landed on Mando. They curled up deviously, as if he held a secret behind his crooked teeth, tilting his head to catch every bit of his armour in his vision. In his gaze he held a hint of jealousy, the desire to be just as dangerous as a Mandalorian with little to no consequences, to hide in the shadows, engulfed by the sheer power he held in the laziest of thrones.

“I can only imagine you’re here for me,” Dario’s baritone depth barely pierced the music. “Although I’m sure there are more bounties here that are worth your while.”

Mando contemplated staying silent, as he usually did, but Dario’s cockiness didn’t sit well with him. “I’m sure your bounty amount can contest otherwise.”

He huffed at his retort. “I’m sure I could compensate for your time with double-- no sorry-- _triple_ the amount of credits in my bounty.”

“I don’t take Imperial credits.”

Dario stared at him, his milky eye twitching. Mando cocked his head in an angle that suggested that he was looking at the floor but his eyes were cornered, studying the bounty. He noticed that his eyelid was split in half, clumps of lashes missing on each side, peeled up to reveal more of the sickly white swirl that encompassed his eyeball. The scar was deep, so deep that if it was cut one more layer it would expose bone, and was held back by indents of harsh scarring from botched staples.

Mando considered he did this on purpose. No normal person, if they couldn’t help it, would allow their skin to scar that way without some bacta. It was all a front, to display some testosterone fueled, Alpha Male bullsit that was only a slipcover over the cowardice that came along when he decided to play both sides of the war. Dario blinked and laughed, letting it shake his ribs, nodding slowly.

“I always thought Mandalorians were better than that. Just take what they can get, don’t be so selfish. Did the Siege of Mandalore teach you anything?”

Mando stifled a chuckle. He ducked underneath his arm at the next pulse of the strobing light, leaving Dario in the nanosecond of darkness, grabbing the groove of his bicep to tug behind his back. Dario pulled forward, raising his knee to make contact with Mando’s stomach, the flesh being met with heavy beskar. Nonetheless, it made contact and blew him back with a harsh grunt, Dario’s arm hooking around his neck to pull him down. As Mando struggled against his harsh chokehold he stepped on his foot, earning a grunt, taking advantage of his buckling knees to hook his own leg around his calves to sink his body lower. As he hooked it he released his free arm to grab his blaster but was caught in the bluntness of Dario’s fist against his first row of ribs, preventing him from catching them in his hands firmly.

The blaster rolled onto the floor and yet no one reacted, as if this was a normal occurrence in this specific pleasure house, only allowing quick glances to catch parts of the show. Mando pushed up and made contact with Dario’s protruding chin, then his Adam’s apple, unraveling himself from his grasp. As he struggled to maintain a firm stance he took the time to try and shoot out his grappling line. 

However Dario chuckled, watching the steel loop itself out of his arm, taking two measly steps to the right, only to hook around an innocent Twi’lek woman’s legs. She stumbled from the force and landed on her forearms, glass shattering everywhere. Mando grunted at the mistake until he looked down at his vambrace, sparks twitching out of the corners to shock the tips of his fingers. 

“You’re a tough one, Mando,” he complimented, flipping a weapons disabler sticker in his fingers. “But you need to compromise your brute nature with some intelligence.”

Mando rushed behind him, pushing past the protesting crowd, only to be met with an empty hallway. Rushia stared at him, blinking quickly, from her throne, flipping through a photo album, swirling a glass of expensive Coruscanti champagne in a silver chalice.

“Don’t ask me where he went,” she contested, taking a sip. “I’m not your partner in your bounty hunting shenanigans, no matter how much you sweet talk me.”

Mando stood there, out of breath and defeated. He hauled his shoulders forward and walked out the door of the pleasure house, his throat hitched with hate, wishing that he would’ve turned down the tempting credits that Greef Karga promised. He tugged at the disabler sticker at the bottom his arm, hissing a quick _fuck_ while dipping into the crevices of the center of the planet.


	2. A Taunting Gesture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not the Empire. Each other. I’m describing us now. You don’t see them, Mandalorian? The way planets split for you, in pure, carnal fear? You don’t notice that in your independence, in your intimidation, you conquer?”

The air was circling through the gaps of Mando’s armour. It left a film on the skin underneath his thermal clothing, the same kind of pressure one would feel during a heatwave, still and thick, alluding to the dark grey clouds in the inky sky. He could smell the faint mist of a thunderstorm brewing in the air, even almost tasting it in his clenched jaw, flaring his nostrils open as he took in great huffs of air. He adjusted his hips upwards, curling his belly to curve correctly in his chestplate, focusing his vision to balance at his visor’s automatic focus overlay. The steady hum of the overlay filled his ears, along with the buzz of the city and as he settled his chin on the curved roof of a complex, he was left with a sudden realization that made his ears flush.

He fucked up this one big time.

To others it would seem like an honest mistake. The Twi’lek he accidentally yanked was hissing and gnashing her teeth at him, her spit flying yelling prompting a headache and rushed apologies. That in itself was enough for Mando to handle. He’s had worse thrown or said at him; over time he built up so much grit that practically nothing could chip away at his patience. However, there was something particularly vexing about his encounter with Dario Creed. It made Mando feel somewhat dull in comparison, somehow shrunken under the gaze that even his blinded eye pierced through his beskar. He was just a tad quicker, two steps farther from Mando’s, almost reading past his calculated moves. It was pure mockery to the Mandalorian’s profession and it was driving him crazy on this rooftop in the middle of Hosnian Prime.

He searched the perimeter, tilting his head slightly to encompass the area that was cut with skyscrapers and jagged edges of the yellow white lights. His visual overlay zoomed in, calculating the pixelated faces of larger crowds into clearer images, none of them resembling the ghoulish smirk that Dario seemed to have seared in his full lips. Again, a mockery of Mando’s profession. 

The entire interaction was a joke. The conversation, the clouds that hindered Dario’s lazy gaze, the absolute archaic use of a disabling sticker that he still kept in his pocket, rolling the ridges of the technology in between his leathered fingers to serve as a reminder of his naiveness. It was all a joke, one big joke Mando wasn’t in on, fueling the bubbling anger that threatened to burn through his ribcage. His heart raced at the thought of it, his ears perking up to the jagged breaths that escaped his nostrils. However he leveled himself and propped his elbow up, pulling his body forward to get a better scan of the crowd.

No Dario in sight. He rolled over to his right shoulder, sighing, then pushing himself up to sit against the wall. He looked up at the sky, the warped skyscrapers encompassing the moon, so bright and stark white, his helmet rolling back to pinch his cape. 

He could call it a night. He could finally sleep in a proper bed, not the dirt floors he was used to or the stiff cot on the  _ Razor Crest  _ that molded to his daunting posture. Start fresh. Fresh mind, fresh senses, fresh pool of patience he can dip in instead of the angering magma that ate him alive.

A voice, heavy with wheezing words. Thick with jeering jabs at every dip of the simple syllables, yet strangled with a forced shrunken control, only to be exposed through a rich baritone that seemed past Mando’s helmet.

“Looking for someone?”

He whipped around and reached his blaster. Dario raised his hands up, chuckling darkly at his sudden movement, taking a step back with his left foot. Mando followed suit, taking the same slow step, raising his blaster to line up with his head. If it was up to him he would’ve shot him clean in between his eyes, watching them cross to view the gaping hole that released smoke and scorched skin, taking not so elegant twirls before slamming to the floor. 

_ That would be a sight to see.  _

Instead they stare at each other, Dario’s eyes searching past the visor, trying to gauge if he were to see Mando’s eyes, would he see the same anger he saw in himself? Would he see swirling galaxies of disdain, a quiet space storm that he managed to conjure himself, only because he  _ finally  _ bested a Mandalorian? One could hope. He settled on the tense gathering of his shoulders, pauldrons glistening from the neighboring lights, occasionally bouncing back and forth between the barrel of the gun and the cut of his visor.

They said nothing, merely circle in their own testosterone filled display, dancing along the border of absolutely gnashing their canines at each other’s exposed throats than actually coming to a common ground. Nevertheless, Mando didn’t show that storm. He didn’t expose his emotions, didn’t display any cockiness that Dario could feed off of. That was a perk of the Mandalorian armour. It harbored the truth, it held back the hellish despise, irritation or even sympathy one could feel for their opponent. It was an advantage that Mando was willing to take pride in. His finger clenched from pulling the trigger, watching as Dario’s hands curved down to settle at the height of the dip of his waist. His eyebrows quipped at his stillness.

“You’re not going to shoot me dead, Mandalorian?” he whispered into the air. A breeze passed through, picking his cape up. 

“Wouldn’t be much of use to me dead.” he deadpanned, noticing that his attire was still Imperial appropriate: The emblem was stitched out, leaving behind strings from the patch, tight against his thick muscles, the dye of his pants so faded that it resembled the ash of cooked coals. His boots, worn with mud and action, were Imperial grade, the once rich leather a symbol of the articulation of the crisp and immaculate image they once held themselves in.  _ Pathetic.  _

“I could be of use to you, you know,” Dario tested the rising waves by taking a step forward. “This could be beneficial for the two of us.”

Mando pretended to ponder on the proposal. “Hmm. Our benefits are not mutual.”

“How so?”

“I want you dead. The client doesn’t. Doesn’t seem mutual does it?”

Dario nodded, pursuing his lips in agreement. “Doesn't seem like it at all.”

Mando considered his answer in his head, flipping between the extremity of his threat and the rawness of the truth. He wouldn’t deny that if this was a dead or alive situation he would’ve ended it before the ink of his fake name, affectionately just Mythosaur (he was never the creative type), just to get it over with and take that risk of cutting that respectable amount of credits. It still stirred him with an unsettling churning. How in the kriffing galaxy is it possible to feel this kind of disdain for a bounty? 

“Did they at least offer a cut of your pay if you did kill me?” Dario took another step.

Mando does the same. “Do you want to die?”

“Preferably not. We all do one day, today I would prefer not to. I would like to spend one more night with that Togruta Marza, she was a beaut--”

“Then why do you ask?” Mando gritted, his top lip snarling ever so slightly. Dario would hear it in his modulated voice, noticing the drop in his baritone slur.

“Simply weighing out my options.” He shrugged.

The weight of the silence fell once more. Mando noticed he never switched his vision but deemed this better. He secretly enjoyed the lens focusing back and forth at each jerk or roll of his muscles, hyperfixating at each anticipating move. He noticed his temperature rising, a low hum of red bordering his frame, dipping a deeper maroon around the shell of his ears, the pit of his belly, and the padding of his feet. A drop of sweat dropped over his scar, taking it as a path to a makeshift river, disappearing into his sideburns.

He was nervous.  _ Good,  _ Mando sneered, shifting his weight on his opposite hip.  _ Keep up the front and see where it gets you.  _

Dario observed him closely, his hands rising back up, before crossing over his chest in a taunting gesture. He was playing in fire now, taking his time to shift his hips to stride towards the edge of the rooftop. Mando followed him with his blaster. He propped his leg up at the edge, resting his forearms on his knees, pushing his neck forward. His hair had a slight yellow tint from the lights but still reflected that gunmetal grey, hints of pitch black strands peeking from underneath the slicked back mass. He pursed his lips in thought, soaking in the stalled time between the fated bounty hunter and the planet’s sharp landscape. 

“I’ve… done some things in my life,” Dario began, stopping to hear Mando scoffing. He continued with a roll of his neck. “I will not stand here and deny that. I dedicated my life to the Empire. Dedicated my intelligence. Dedicated my craftsmanship. Do you know how hard it is to try and even  _ attempt  _ to get my position?”

Mando rolled his eyes and bit his lip to hold back a retort. He only showed his attention by tilting his helmet back, just a tad, to get a clearer view of his body. He took some steps closer, closing the gap to a few feet apart, to ensure no escape. Dario scanned his tense posture and continued.

“What we had, what the Empire had… it was nothing short but special. You see, in order to instill order and submission you need to instill fear. Fear is what drives the command. But there is also a sense of independence one must contribute to the cause. Sounds a bit like you, doesn’t it?”

Mando’s eye shot up to lock in with his, his head tilting back in anticipation of his reaction. “Don’t compare me to the Empire--”

“No, no,” Dario corrected, waving his hands. “Not the Empire.  _ Each other.  _ I’m describing  _ us  _ now. You don’t see them, Mandalorian? The way planets split for  _ you,  _ in pure, carnal fear? You don’t notice that in your independence, in your intimidation, you conquer?”

Conquer? The way the word rolled off Dario’s tongue, it was slimy, sticking to his brain like molasses on bark. He noticed a visible shiver that rocked his forearms forward, almost in an erotic sense. Mando was caught in his sensual reaction to his own words. Just the sheer weight of the venom that dripped made Dario intoxicated, so much so that he rambled on.

“The power you hold, Mandalorian, it’s addicting isn’t it? You-you feel it don’t you? You don’t feel it? When you t-take a bounty, feel them squirming underneath your fingers, you don’t f-feel the urge to just…” He clenched his fist and chuckled. “You don’t feel it?”

Mando stepped closer and watched Dario’s shoulder blades roll upwards. He scanned his body, keeping his helmet still to give an illusion that he was still staring at his twisted face, taking notice that he had no visible weapons or technology on him. Did he leave it back at the pleasure house? Was it a front? Or maybe the disabling sticker was used as a tracking fob as well; playing as a front to corner the bounty hunter? Dario took a step back and Mando took a step forward. He was getting tired of this speech tango they were participating in.  _ Not yet,  _ Mando gritted again, grinding his teeth.  _ He’s not done.  _

However, after some seconds of stilled silence, he considered the bounty to be… correct. His maddening words sank in his stomach like heavy rocks, weighing his ankles down in his defensive position. He’s heard it all before: he’s a madman, he’s a killing machine, no one would ever  _ dare  _ cross the ones who’ve adapted the ways of Mandalore, the ancient practice, the way of life that is so rigid and dedicated to each and every law that there was no room for adaptations or revisions. That was the Way. That was the  _ only  _ way. 

He’d be lying if it hasn’t passed through his mind before. It was always there, lingering in front of his face like tempting bait, waiting for that one slip of the mind to catch on. Like it used to be, like it was when he felt the debilitating frustrations of his life, unceremoniously dropping the Creed onto his lap, the weight of responsibility, unchecked grief and anger cementing in his joints until moments like the one with Dario Creed cracked against his joints to  _ dare  _ him to fall into them and just let go. Maybe a crack in the skull, maybe a kick behind the knee, shatter a bone or two. Just something to make you feel like you have control for once in your life Mandalorian, it told him, bring back that sweet taste of dominance you’ve always chased since you were a young buck, glistening in your armour, proud of the suppression that was held together with welded beskar.

The hum of the planet vibrated off of their strained bodies. Seconds go by, slow like the sinking quicksands of Jakku, just basking in their conversation. “You don’t know what or who I am.”

He was taken aback by his sudden answer. He offered him what seemed like a nod, however it rounded out to look over his shoulder. “You’re right. I do not. But neither do you.”

He bent down to touch his knees to the floor and sprinted towards the edge once more, arms straight on his sides, dropping off the surface. Mando grunted loudly in frustration and clipped his blaster to his side, staggering over the edge of the complex to watch him bounce off the corner of a balcony, propping himself on the neighboring one like a gargoyle.

_ That motherfucker had it planned out from the get go. _

He saw a clear landing on another balcony, directly across from Dario. He sprinted towards the edge and waved his arms towards the surface, fingers wiggling to grasp the railing. He landed firm on his feet, scanning the area, until he saw his worn boots kicking the wall to pull himself forward and landing onto the ground. Luckily for him he landed on a pile of broken crates, earning groans and surprised gasps from the crowd, then turning his head up to look at Mando. He smirked and sprinted to the left.

Mando followed suit, his breathing into heavy pants, dicing in between shocked crowds. There were quick stripes of lights that dashed next to the corner of his eyes, leaving behind whips of wind from his cape, and he began to feel that aching weight he always felt when he had to exert all his energy in a goose chase, even ones as foolish as this. 

_ Just a bit more, just a bit more… _

A cut through an alleyway, through another sector of the planet. Up on a pile of crates, steel banging on metal, the heightened sound of industrial noise from construction droids, racking in his helmet like pendulum swings, Dario’s ankle slipping alongside a raised wall, hooking the heel onto a welded piece of metal, scrapping apart the last bit of Imperial propaganda--

Dario slipped from the exposure of his raised heel, grunting as his knee made contact with the wall.  _ There it was.  _

Mando gripped the back of his shirt, along with part of his ponytail, yanking him backwards onto the floor. He made sure to make contact with his knee to the back of his head for extra measure, watching as his grip loosened when his head slipped along the smooth steel. He picked him up by his arm, twisting one wrist behind him, whipping out his blaster with his other hand.

“One move,” he emphasized by pressing his thumb into his palm, squeezing the tendon and feeling the bones in his wrist protrude through his skin. “And I snap your wrist like a twig.”

For once Dario Creed said nothing.

* * *

Mando hadn’t noticed how far the walk back to pleasure house and ship was. It was obvious from the way his knees burned from the constant pull, pressure tugging up at his ankles, annoying that Dario made himself so stiff that he had to exert so much force to pull him along. 

He made sure to cut through alleyways, the dips of underground shops, and piles of garbage. Shamefully so, so self conscious in its intentions. Dario knew this too but kept his face free of emotion, far too amused at this bounty hunter’s self pity. He did it on purpose, he knew this, he did it for the same reason that Dario had mentioned before on the rooftop: to avoid the stares. The walk of shame, the absolute fear that those citizens must feel from their goose chase. He refused to chase that high. He needed some time to himself, to contemplate his actions, his emotions. He was right, wasn’t he? He was, he was totally right, completely correct in his observation, he was so crystal clear in his vision he could see past the muddied waters that the Mandalorian found himself drowning in, choking on the globs of mud, in the embittered waves that crash in between the cracks of his beskar--

“Are you sure you know where you’re going, Mando?” Dario prompted, swerving to the side when he pulled him closer.

“Quiet.”

A beat. “I’m sure we’ve passed this welding shop before--”

“ _ Quiet. _ ” He twisted his arm up, earning a sharp yelp from the bounty.

He considered his doubt and looked around, his helmet lulling out beeps from the heat recognition prompt. He indeed noticed the welding shop, however it was one that had a major difference. This one, unlike the other, had Huttese advertisements on the side in neon green lights while the other had Basic. To anyone else it was the same, however to Mando it was a clue on Dario: he focused on the minute details, much like the Empire’s desire to keep everything linear and tight. He turned down an alley and he spotted the familiar baby pink lights of Rushia’s Pleasure Palace, the lingering tinge of the shade mimicking the ones on his cheekbones.

“Wait, you just can’t let me not say goodbye Marza, she’s probably worried sick--” he gagged at the next tug, his arm now twisted further upwards, in between his staunt shoulder blades. 

Rushia sat at the door, propped on top of a high throne, taking a drag of her cigarette placed delicately on a gold holder, decorated with a swirl of rubies. She peered down on the two, like a judger to the pariah, and smirked.

“Looks like you found him,” she coughed, waving the smoke away. “Dario, you fool.”

“You sure know how to, uh, make a man feel good, Rushia…” he mumbled, rolling his eyes. 

“Must be frustrating to be bested by a Mandalorian. Especially from a man of your intelligence.” She shrugged and although she was talking to Dario, she stared through Mando. She squinted at the swirling smoke and waved her hand once more.

“Take him away. He’s bad for business.”

* * *

For once, the ship had never looked more inviting than that moment. The droid followed him to collect the rest of his credits, to which he shoved with annoyance in its bucket, earning an approving beep from it. He punched in the command for the hatch, its slow hissing noise flooding with the loud port. He now had Dario in cuffs, tightening the grip ‘ _ just for him’,  _ mockingly in his ear, watching as his sleeve rode up to expose his tense wrist.

And yet with Mando’s incredulous behavior, he stayed silent. Although it was a cool break from the other chatty or resisting bounties, this was odd… for Dario. Halfway through the trek he had unlocked his knees and matched Mando’s speed, even down to the stumbles on raised and uneven paths, all while keeping tight lipped. Mando considered two options at that point: he had accepted his fate or he was planning for another way out.

He wouldn’t put it past him if he had a Plan C, D, E, or whatever phase he was on, however.

Regardless it gave him time to simmer the burning coals of anger in his belly, to actually process real time and settle on the fact that this seemingly tedious bounty hunt was actually over. As soon as the door dropped he let go of the cuffs and pushed his shoulders.

“Move.” Mando commanded.

He took notice at his gaze falling onto his weapons cabinet that he kept locked up. He smirked underneath the helmet but it faltered when he heard a slight cough of a chuckle.

“I’ve always wondered what kind of weapons a Mandalorian would have,” he murmured almost to himself. “I’d imagine a mixture of traditionally accepted weaponry and scraps that lie around on the planets you conquered.” 

Mando said nothing and twisted his body to face him, the height difference apparent from the dip of his head. Dario’s gaze rested in the middle of his visor but landed on his forehead, searching and glossy, until he closed them. His obsolete eye peaked through the thin skin, like paper through a glass window, blocks of lashes lifting upwards.

“I can always appreciate a man that appreciates weaponry. I can also appreciate a man that has outmatched me.” Dario opened his eyes, slowly turning his head to watch Mando’s fingers initiate the carbon freezing chamber. He winced at the gas and looked back at Mando.

“The Empire always used carbonite for our… uncooperative guests,” he sneered. “Looks like I’ll be joining them on the occasion.” 

“Looks like you will be.” Mando sneered back, his vocador masking his hiss. He pushed him harshly into the frame yet stopped when Dario raised his hand.

“One last thing,” his voice deepened. “You better hope this would be the last time you see me, Mandalorian. Good luck.”

The tibanna gas filled the air, clouding the yellow and right lights of the command panel, swirling around the round edges of his pauldrons. Dario’s threats felt empty at first, until Mando locked eyes with his carbon frozen face. It was glaring into him, past the beskar, past the flesh, placing its taunting gaze deeper than his mind would allow. It was an attempt at intimidation, sure, but it felt worse than that. Intimidation was nothing for the bounty hunter. This was simple and felt quite personal. Felt like the truth.

Mando flicked the switch to fold the bounties into each other. Even though his carbonized body was folded among the other empty slots of bounties, his glare remained, flashes of his lowered eyelids, shadows cascading over them with ominous promise. It crept a shiver up his spine but he suppressed it, striding towards his quarters.

As soon as he reached for the underside of his helmet he paused, groaning loudly to himself. Just looking at his pathetic excuse for a cot made him ache bitterly, completely forgetting the fact that he rented a room for one night.

Not just any room. A room with a bed. Probably a bed with expensive cotton and goose feathers.

And not just any bed with expensive cotton and goose feathers. A bed in a  _ pleasure house. _

“Kriff,” he said out loud, a bit louder than expected. “One night wouldn’t hurt.”

As he walked out he re entered his ground safety protocol, looking out at the purple black horizon of Hosnian Prime. Strangely, the view filled his chest with an odd weight he hadn’t felt since his earlier years with the Guild. Even before the Guild it seemed like. It was a redundant thing, the past and its hold that it can have. For some reason it dragged on even more during this bounty. It singed his ribcage with the desire to just  _ let go,  _ even for a night, to relish in what he used to be. Perhaps Dario was right. Perhaps they were similar in a sense. Or maybe he truly didn’t know who he was.

Rushia was still on her throne, shooing away a humanoid man with pinkish skin and a shaved head. She perked up at the sight of Mando, whose strides slowed down. His body was hot from her lazy gaze, slacked smirk and all, stepping closer as she pushed the cigarette holder behind her ear.

“Considered my offer of having fun?” she slurred.

Mando shook his head slow. “Just need a warm bed.”

“Let me know if you need a warm body with that.”

She threw him his key card. He caught it in between two fingers, surprised at the weight of it. He gripped it, feeling its grooves in between his leathered fingers, striding towards the hall of bedrooms. The hall was illuminated with a flush of light neon pink, surprisingly quieter than the other entrances. He spotted a Togruta at a door, her voluptuous form leaning against it. Her plump lips, deep maroon, curled into a sweet smile, rehearsed and yet so genuine in the way her teeth just peak out at the sight of his dominant form. He paused to watch her, that weight back now in his stomach, brewing a storm.

“My name’s Marza. You must be so handsome underneath that helmet. Care to spend the night with me?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so hard writing slow burns but I'm trying! Hopefully this chapter isn't too painful...!
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed it!


	3. Bad/Good News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His senses honed in on his metal home, the broken and fragile Razor Crest, into every whistle of wind through the scorched and weather torn steel plates, and down to the heavy smell of the rich Bantha meat. All of these little occurrences and details affirmed the hazy truth that created a film over his out of focused vision.
> 
> He was painfully alone.

Sleep cycles were never Mando’s best friend. Neither was the unforgiving transitions of age, battle torn scars and the sudden jerks of space’s dense pull. However those were manageable. A stretch here, a slap of bacta there, ignorance possibly to lessen the sting and tear. But, sleep was another territory of torture. He cannot remember the last time he slept through an entire night, not even as a child. It came to him in jagged pieces, way too sharp to grasp and way too blunt to groove it in calloused skin, its desperate truth questioning him with every pang against his head. Sometimes the reminders would come in his mother’s smell, sweet and earthy, grounding him to face that bittersweet embrace that he craved every single night. Or it was found in the memory of the evening when he adopted the creed, sought out reflections of his grim boyish frown, the heat of his skin attaching to his helmet that was so snug and yet so intimate in its clutch. 

It was at least the comfort of the familiarity of it all; the Mandalorian was a stranger in his own skin and beskar, dragging along the skeletons he kept on his shoulders, lost in those same pieces that seemed to dislodge his mind to land in between dreaming and reality. A repetitive cycle that he grew a home in.

And maybe it was better that way. He lived in it, made a cozy home in it, constructing never ending circles to get himself lost in. To be lost wandering in the labyrinth of his life before all of this. He searched for the answers in the clusters of stars and asteroid showers, in between the smoothed flesh of his brain. 

Still, in this self made labyrinth, he was tortured by  _ sleep.  _ The simplicity of it just grew the forest veins higher, blocking his view with thicker foliage, slivers of the sky mocking him in his journey. It was past exhaustion at this point. His body was running on pure adrenaline and lulled pools of comfort in the uncomfortable armour he wore day in and day out. He rolled his head to the side and suppressed a yawn into his pillow. 

His body screamed for him to sleep just a bit more, to at least roll his body into the airy mattress to work the kinks in the folds of his muscles, but he propped himself with his forearms flat on the sheets. He squinted a bit at the rising sun, glistening the diamond dew drops on his window, lulling his head back to suppress yet another yawn. It wasn’t until the grooves of his helmet pinched his neck and hair that he realized he kept it on all night.  _ Maybe that’s why my head is fucking pounding _ , he slurred to himself, leaning his bare chest into the sun. The warmth of its rays dug into his muscles while he wounded up his left arm, both counter and clockwise, then his ankles, until the rest of his body responded well to the movement to sit at the edge of the bed.

The night had come and gone like blinking lights behind closed lids. He pondered on how long he had slept; since he arrived on the planet it had been a whole rotation since he last slept. His mind was still blurry with thoughts so he disregarded the analysis, figuring that resting his eyes would equate to a full night's rest.

It had also been a few rotations since he had last removed his helmet. Recycled air wasn’t good for any man, even one with this strict creed and anonymity, but judging from his shaking hands and the flashes of that Togruta, basking in the sweet glow of the sinful evening, it would have to wait. He sighed from deep in his lungs and began to slip back on his clothes.

He stared at his beskar that laid against the wall in organized piles. He could still taste his regrets and slip of insanity on his tongue. 

* * *

The  _ Razor Crest  _ was his haunted home. Mando was never a believer in benevolent spirits or anything that may not be tangible, things that can only be described in airy adjectives or rely on the thrills of its believers. If it didn’t exist physically, if he couldn’t grip it with his bare fist, well, it simply was just talk. He had heard stories from his childhood and now of such things. The idea of spiritual connection, that there was a river of consciousness and pull that intertwined all living on this earth, it all sounded like proper folly. During the war it was only explained in choppy sentences and harsh whips of whispers. It was almost as if they were afraid to manifest such a thing that it would come true and wreak havoc on his tribe; he even made sure to never even think about it in fear of triggering a catalyst that couldn’t be subdued with weapons and combat. His childish candor simply settled on the idea that once something is gone, it’s simply gone. To try and manifest it through thought and hope was just… a lack of mental grasp, he concluded.

Yet, even with talk of such things, he still considered his ship haunted. The amount of bounties that had entered and exited that hatch was unfathomable in a numerical sense. Although they left, they still left behind a piece of them. A droplet of blood, a river of tears, banging knees on the cold hard floor, something that expressed their odd attachment to the bounty hunter. Attachment in a job like this is the biggest sin, no doubt, however they unceremoniously made a home in this ship. He could hear him at times, in each groan and tweak of the floating piece of junk. The dead spoke in the grooves, gears, leaking oil and loosening gas tanks, and even in the rusting frame of his cot’s skeletal frame.

His ship shuddered at the sight of Nevarro. Mando was thankful that the bounty hunt was over, feeling a twinge of excitement from telling Greef that the supposed difficult task was done with little effort (well, maybe not exactly like that, but why deprive the man of the pleasure at the thought). He initiated the landing sequence and sat back, allowing the familiarity of the planet to encompass his vision.

He settled on the same piece of land that he used when he arrived in previous jobs, allowing the Guild workers to extract the carbonite cargo from his ship once the hatch opened. He made his way through kicked up dirt to the cantina to find Greef.

“Next time you talk to me it better be the fact that you have bounty on your ship,” his gruff voice echoed in the usually packed cantina. “Now get out of my face!”

The humanoid with prickled maroon skin contested him in Huttese, to which Greef shushed with a wave of his hand. He shook his head at the banter and shot back his drink, searching the crowd. Mando made sure to step in his vision to catch his scan. His gaze fell on his supposed favorite bounty hunter and smirked, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“I think the heat is getting to me, because I know that’s definitely  _ not  _ Mando back so soon!” he bellowed across the way. The Guild members paused to stare, turning and squirming in their seats in the newest gossip of this gunslinger.

Mando, as usual, said nothing to his overly enthusiastic partner and slammed the tracking fob on the counter, its dim light throbbing inside the cracked surface. Greef’s brows are still raised but then accompanied by pursed lips and an escaping breath. 

“Well,” he started, leaning back. “How did it go?”

“It was quick,” he lied. “Hid in a pleasure house on Hosnian Prime.”

Greef gawked at this. “A  _ pleasure  _ house? Maker, what a smart guy. If you’re going out you better go out in style, right Mando?”

“Something like that.”

He frowned at his reaction and then scoffed in disbelief. “Should’ve taken his advice.” Mando twitched at this declaration. “Anyway! The client didn’t have time to cash out his credits for you to use so he placed it all on his card.”

He pulled the slick golden card from his front pocket, settling it in between his index and middle finger. Mando frowned at this. He hated using cards, physical credits were easier to track in his pouch and didn’t leave behind a paper trail. Regardless he slipped the card in between his fingers, tilting the glistening silver and gold chip from the edge of the card.

“Don’t spend it all in one place, Mando.” Greef winked. Mando merely nodded to show he was paying some attention to his antics. As he rose Greef raised his hand, blinking down.

“Almost forgot,” he quipped, “The client also wanted evidence of his capture.”

Mando cocked his head. “Isn’t his carbonite body enough proof?”

“I agree, it should be. But he’s insistent that he sees it before it’s sent out to his location. He, uh, apparently thinks the Guild lies too much for him to give us full confidence of shipment.”

He shrugged and grabbed the holoprojector from his hand. He couldn’t disagree with the client on this one. There were many Guild members that would go through worse methods to collect their money and go. “No questions asked.” He confirmed out loud, adding a strained sigh at the end.

His steps were heavier and quick from the filling irritation in his muscles. All he wanted was to stuff his face with some portions, polish his beskar and weapons, maybe a nap or two, but of  _ course  _ a client wanted something  _ so specific,  _ it made no sense, he thought, how pointless and weirdly particular and weirdly requested and weirdly excessive, redundant, outrageous, what a waste of his kriffing time--

His carbonite was already loaded on a transporter, face side up. His sharp nose cut through the border of the frame and his arms, down to each flex of his fist, was solid and shining from the Nevarro sun. Mando raised the device and tapped it on, the blue white light casting over the carbonite. 

“Greef Karga said you wanted proof,” Mando spared the unnecessary introduction once the connection was solid. “He’s ready for transport.”

A chuckle cracked the holoprojector’s image. The client sat lazily on his chair, legs spread open, picking his teeth with a pick. “Well that was quick. When I heard a Mandalorian would be doing my dirty work I knew it would be done with quick haste.”

Mando remained tight lipped at his backward compliment. The client looked up and threw the pick to the floor. 

“Was it hard?” he inquired. Mando shook his head. “Of course it wasn’t. I hope you left behind a bruise or two. Maybe a broken bone.”

“Anything else?” Mando gritted, his annoyance bubbling a bit more. The client sat up straight, scanning his beady eyes through the camera. 

“I’m amazed how it all came full circle. To think, the two that are defiant against the Empire end up benefiting anyway. One gets to pay for forgiveness and one gets paid. How  _ unorthodox. _ ”

The holoprojection shut off with a hiss. Mando was left with his retort behind his gritted teeth, almost tempted to throw the device into Dario’s frame. He knew it to not be true but it still geared its way into him slowly, like a dagger in flesh, burrowing its words in deep tissue. He unclenched the device and turned around back to his ship. He slipped past the Guild workers and made haste to close his hatch. 

As soon as ground protocols were placed he climbed down his hatch in search of his rations. Last time he checked he had three portions of instant Bantha meat with potatoes and Bantha bone gravy, a barrel of water and dried star fruit from a previous trade. His mouth watered at the thought of his pathetic feast so his thumbs pushed at the underside of his helmet with quick haste. 

He mimics the hiss from the detachment and his lips parted to taste the air, a bit stale but fresher than what the helmet hid. His hair, a bit damp from the heat, curls at his forehead and the back of his neck. He rubbed his cheek, his calloused skin grating against jagged shadows of facial hair, his jaw slacked and pooling with saliva. The area was dimly lit with one weakening yellow bulb, encompassing crates and tarps. He picked up a crate, digging its contents, pulling out the last bit of his portions and a metal plate.

He ripped a piece of star fruit in between his teeth, slouching over to watch the beige contents bubble and manifest in front of him. His stomach twisted, not from hunger, but from a longing to have something more solid. He would even settle for a simple bone broth or grilled fish, even if said fish still had gravel and sand stuck to its gills. These portions were enough to subdue the growling but not the churning or burning.

He settled a piece of the fruit on his tongue in thought. From his slowed chews he knew he was back on his unhealthy habit. Down the labyrinth he went, a foolish temptation of a trail to a bitter truth, the fruit weighing heavy on his palate. His senses honed in on his metal home, the broken and fragile  _ Razor Crest,  _ into every whistle of wind through the scorched and weather torn steel plates, and down to the heavy smell of the rich Bantha meat. All of these little occurrences and details affirmed the hazy truth that created a film over his out of focused vision.

He was painfully alone.

And it hurt. More than that, than something that can be comparable as a scratch one may feel from a stumble or grazing a rough surface. It was an impenetrable force that kept his wounds open and dug salt at every chance it got. A spectre that followed him around and kissed his neck, reminding him at every living moment he was alone, he was utterly alone, and that he would always be alone. No, he told it, swallowing the fruit and picking up the bowl so he can scoop the meat in the potatoes. That’s not me, he scowled, swallowing the food so harshly it lodged in his throat, his eyes watering. He repressed it with every heaving breath, every large scoop of food in hasty movements, like a vulture to carrion, until he brought the bowl to his mouth to lick it clean. The loneliness floated about while he gulped the water, ignoring its presence. 

He leaned back on the crate and coughed, closing his eyes to sink into the sound of his adjusting beskar and flying bouts of sand.  _ It wasn’t true. It’s not true.  _

* * *

Mando sat back in the pilot’s seat while in hyperspace, cushioning the back of his head with his arm. Greef was right to warn him about not spending his credits in all one place. Although his food and med pacs were supplied for months out, it left him a little budget for ship repairs and future fuel trips. 

His ship suddenly beeped with a message so he flipped the receiver on. Greef’s figure cracked in the hologram. “Mando! I hope you’re taking my advice and using your money wisely.”  _ Too late for that.  _ “I have some good news and some bad news. Better to tell you in person. At your earliest convenience. Karga out.”

That peaked the bounty hunter’s interest. “Ah what the hell.” he told himself, waiting for the snap of hyperspace to reposition the ship to the way back to Nevarro.

This time Greef didn’t pause to greet him. It quipped Mando’s attention to see the overly suave man so strained in his leather vest, eyes searching the cantina with rapid movement. He raised his drink and chugged it until landing his search on Mando. He swallowed the liquor with vigor and waved him to sit down. Mando raised his brows at his sudden hastiness, slowly sliding inside the booth.

“I’m glad you caught my message early,” he commented, still searching the bar.

Mando was immediately worried. “Greef… What’s going on?”

He waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah. Listen, remember what I said about the good and bad news? Which one do you want first?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Fine, fine,” his bitter tone slipped. “Bad news: Dario Creed is out. Again--”

“What do you mean,  _ out? _ ” Mando snarled, gripping his fist so tightly that the seams of his leather gloves loosened. Greef raised his hands in protest.

“ _ Hold on.  _ This has nothing to do with you. He arrived at the client’s location. When they… defrost him or whatever they do, he came to his senses and escaped. The client is livid and is asking for his return, dead or alive…”

His words trailed on in clumps of sound and movements. Mando couldn’t focus on the sounds that came out of his mouth. All that was present was his yellow and red bile of his ire, seeping into his gripping fingertips and strained neck. Greef took notice of his tense partner and stopped his story. “Ready for the good news?”

Mando’s head snapped up at his reality check. He loosened his fist as a signal for him to continue. “I have a couple of jobs for you. To keep your mind off of Dario, to keep your pockets full. You can take your pick of course, however many you want. It’s all I can offer as solace.”

He ignored the pleading look in his eyes. He placed the tracking fobs on the table, accompanied with hologram images of the future bounties. He decided to take all of them, five to be exact, letting his frustration influence his rash decision. Greef pulled one more out of his breast pocket. “Ah, almost forgot. This one is on Maldo Kreis. Chilly but quick.”

He slipped the entire gathering towards him, separating the pile between tracking fobs and hologram pods. Greef watched him carefully, trying to find the words to ease the Mandalorian’s racing mind. It was hard to, admittingly. Who can read someone so accurately based on bodily functions, especially for one that remained so still that their acquaintance swore it was a droid?

“Mando,” Greef called out. Mando showed no interest. “ _ Mando. _ ”

He paused, helmet still lowered to the table. His jaw was tight and gripped with great vengeance. “Don’t go looking after him. It’s being taken care of.”

Mando rose up and slipped the materials in his pockets, leaving Greef with his warm drink and worried thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this chapter was again short, I hope to lengthen the content when the time comes!  
> We're almost there to the ~good kush~, I'm so excited to see how this fleshes out! 
> 
> As always thank you for any kudos, reads or comments, it really makes my day to see them!


	4. Fate and Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And at that moment, all the dust settled around her, like a veil, encompassed around the slivers of sunshine that she radiated from her own flesh. Mando gulped and erected his spine, clutching his fist at his side.
> 
> "Are you a Mandalorian?" she asked, her round lips curved upwards to a seemingly curious smile.  
> "Yeah," his modulated voice trembled. "Something like that."
> 
> (NOTE: Direct quote from The Mandalorian series. I do not own The Mandalorian, Star Wars, Disney etc!)

Mando had lived in bat infested caves that were the size of his own wingspan for weeks. He had slept in a pile of tauntauns in the middle of a flesh nipping blizzards, fought creatures the size of the  _ Razor Crest  _ and bigger, even had to work around foliage that had driven him to scorching hallucinations and loss of hearing all by himself. He had scars that littered his honeyed body like road maps, each stop, curve and indent in the road telling its secrets and trials, secrets that he dispelled from his mind. The inviolable Mandalorian, taut shoulders and swift hips, who had only one rational fear within him that had happened to be composed with screws, bolts and tight steel, yet was still a force of hardened fear and intimidation. 

Until a fifty year old child with eyes bigger than the galaxy and ears to match showed up.

It amazed him how quick he was to make that kind of decision in such a short pinch of time. He was a man embedded in the Guild, no matter how stiff the rules were. No questions, don’t concern yourself with their business, don’t say anything about their business. Simple rules to follow, even a common man could comprehend it without using much brain power. And yet, even with its simplicity, it held such a strong pull to his morality the moment their eyes met.

Initially, it was a mixture of curiosity and awkwardness. He caught his lips snarling upwards and brows frowning in the middle from the way the child stared at him back. His gaze held no demise nor intimidation, instead blinked back with a peculiarly slow pace, glazed with drying tears. It stared at him back as if he knew him, as if he was waiting specifically for the aging bounty hunter to scoop him up.

He inspected it in different lightings, seeing the way its paper thin ears would shift in the sunlight, canals of veins connecting to its cartilage, watching its lids snap open and shut in the darkness in an attempt to focus its vision. It even  _ sounded  _ like a human baby, cooing behind pouting lips, a small row of rounded teeth cutting through its cries.

It was a baby. Well, as much as a baby as it could be. Mando had absolutely no clue what to do with it, what to call it (he decided against it, attachments to a bounty was hardly in question), what to even feed it. He held the child as if he was melting glass, painfully hot and jellied, wincing when it made a noise he was not too particularly fond of. At times strings of regret would wrap around his voice when he hissed for it to stop touching everything on the  _ Razor Crest,  _ letting himself get caught in the thick of it when it would retort in a weak squawk of a cry.

Mando felt pity for it. Left alone in a makeshift orb of a crib, watching the way the small being twitch and whine in its confines. He didn’t let it fester for long, the way it cried for him as if it was snatched from the womb, locking deep eyes behind his visor, searching for that same pity he resonated back.

Just like when Mando was taken away. When he was little Din, a trembling child that was still adding his parents’ distressing stare into his memory to haunt him. It was worse to let go when he could see his muddied reflection staring back at him.

He thought he was out of the clear when the Client slammed the weathered container of beskar on the table. He even considered himself finished when the shining steel greeted him with a sweet homecoming, the material finally home to roost, but the distraction in front of him was plaguing the real issue at hand: that peculiar child. He knew in their unspoken language that the stars that basked in its obsidian eyes, drowning in thin tears, spoke to him in volumes beyond common comprehension. The Mandalorian had found himself with a foundling and in his blood stained creed, the one that he married in a phantom matrimony, he was in charge of it. 

During their journey he marveled at the child’s inquisitive nature, still so infantile yet wiser beyond Mando’s comparable lifetime. The innocence of it was foreign to him. It would chase frogs, hell even its own shadow, with the biggest smile on its thin lips, babbling on in a baby language that only translated into blissful noise. It followed Mando everywhere, even into the refresher, making him grin when he made it wait outside the door every time. 

_ Maybe this is what fatherhood feels like. _

An unconventional way into a family system but there was no room for conventionality in Mando’s world. In his world everything was so fragile and thin, like melting glass dipping in water, waiting for that hiss to harden it into shape. But it never came and it left him to watch it drip, languid and fat, waiting for that splash of steam to fog up his beskar. He held the child with little to no pressure, afraid to snap him in half or push too hard into his oddly soft belly, completely aware of the fact that he was way in over his head to be taking care of a  _ child.  _

He let the stars watch him as he configured through the map, switching between the outside view and the pixelated map. There was a veil of selfishness that accompanied him throughout their journey through space, followed by a swimming guilt. The breath of the Guild was hot on one pauldor and the lost Empire on the other, fogging up his beskar like a haunting kiss, until the soft noise of the child’s gums rubbing on his lever’s ball snapped him back to the cockpit.

While he placed the child on his lap, his shoulders loosened up just a pinch, in a way for the child to interpret that he was slowly decompressing from the confines of his armour, his hold around its body soft like melted butter.

“Let’s see, Sorgan,” he murmured with a hitch of confirmation. “Looks like there’s no star port, no industrial centers, no population density. Real backwater skug hole.”

His chest released a held breath, the pressure waving in his flexed muscles. Maybe this was endgame. His career was finally at a curtain call due to a wiggling green womp rat that was a teething mess and aggressively clingy, and that was oddly more than okay. He was so sure of it that he held no reservation nor hesitation in his locked joints, his hands gliding across the command center with so much ease it was if his appendages were connected to the  _ Razor Crest _ . “You ready to lay low and stretch your legs for a couple of months, you little womp rat?” 

* * *

Life had its way of humbling you. Call it a mockery from the Maker, a trickster that slipped its cards from its sleeves to wave in your face as one last good joke, or even call it fate, humbling you with the fact that you could never settle on one good thing for long. It’s no good to stay comfortable on one good moment in your life; to fixate on a moment is to disregard the reality of the world around you, whether that be through one’s actions, decisions, lack of clarity, and the like. 

Mando never had that luxury to understand nor to even fathom to settle on that good thing. He hadn’t had the time to sink his heavy boots into that thin unspoiled slice of paradise on the skug hole of Sorgan, if one could even call it that now. It was absolutely perfect even with its scratches of imperfection, gliding across the paint that lingered in his picture, slides of the canvas casting over his memory of it. There were splashes of sage, seafoam and emerald, bouncing from the legs of frogs and muddied water, ripples of children’s laughter breaking the thick cotton that held it together.

There was Omera’s smile, one that seemed to linger even after she blessed him with it, a smile that possibly tasted like sunshine and salt water but Mando would never, could never, get the chance to feel the chapped flesh. He could still taste the krill on his tongue, the tang of the shell curving the tip of his tongue with such a blunt edge that it lingered in his beskar, even the  _ smell  _ of the planet and its wet earth, all of it a reminder of his failure. All he had to do was keep the child safe, to settle down with a nice widow and her nice child, finally peeling back that heavy burden he carried throughout his journey. That was it, simple, yet so difficult to grasp, that first shot rang to break that rose colored glass that blinded him that entire time.

There was no comfort in Sorgan. There was no comfort in the Inner Rim, nor the Outer Rim, nor The Colonies or even in the frigid depths of the Unknown Regions. There was only the ice biting, moth eaten, splintering steel of his ship. Its continuous aches called him and the child home and while he limped back to his hatch like an injured fowl, its calls tugged at his cape with such a tender strength he swore he could let it cup his cheek and rock him to sleep if it was persuasive enough. Life was not kind to him, the weak and feeble Mandalorian, and he was off to wallow in his faint ache on that stiff embrace of his chair, until the hologram attached to his command center flickered on.

“I hope this comm line still works. Seemed to when I tried the first few times.”

His head snapped towards the child, who was snoring softly in the crib. Its eyes darted behind his thin lids in a dreamlike state, totally unaware of the rising panic that spat in Mando’s heaving chest. He had left Dario Creed in the deeper folds of his mind, locked away with a steel embrace, yet he weaseled out to manifest himself in the form of a flickering blue white light.

_ That’s what it is _ , Mando considered. His throat was dry and rough, the angering saliva pooling on the bottom of his tongue.  _ I’m tired. That’s all. The exhaustion has caught up with me and I am fucking imagining everything-- _

“You do a good job blending in with the rest of space, Mandalorian. No one would suspect an Imperial junk ship like yours as anything but.”

Watery ire pooled beneath his T-shaped visor, sharp with iron and salt digging in his open wounds, nothing short of the same anger he would feel if he was palpable flesh in front of him. The man that had bested him in a game of wits circled his body like prey to food, poking its silly head in and out in a dance that Mando knew none of the steps to, snapping his ankles back and forth in an attempt to keep up. 

“There’s rumors around the galaxy about you. Something about some kid, I’m not sure whose or what,” there was that unmistakable crack of humor in his baritone hiss. “You really got yourself into some Bantha size shit, huh?”

He licked his lips, grazing on prickled hair. “As you can tell I slipped away. The Guild is so archaic in its ways but I don’t blame them, it’s enough to lay low, hmm? Took awhile for me to regain my vision and motor skills, thank you carbonite, but not enough to get ol’ Dario Creed back in action.”

Dario’s laugh was vile and rough, cracked with sardonic venom. His voice would come in electric waves, at first bouncing off the curve of his helmet like a caressing wind and then chipping at the fresh bitter beskar that donned his body like knives, missing each time it came close to his blacks and slivers of flesh. His legs were tired of kicking back the swallowing water that plunged him into midnight blue depths, licks of inky black limbs encouraging his festering anger. He leaned back in his seat and gripped the arm, the leather taut and firm in his vice grip.

“I’m no longer your main objective, that is clear. That’s not why I called you. I propose a truce. You let me live my life and let you live your fatherhood fantasies with the swamp rat that you picked up. I may settle on my found riches at a place like Canto Bight, you settle on some backwater planet like, I don’t know,  _ Sorgan? _ Deal?”

A haze of thick smoke concealed his face with a quick slap. When the holoimage came back his lip was curved upwards in an odd smile but if he had looked closer, his canines were caught on the pillowed flesh in a weak attempt to bite back a scowl. It had bothered Dario to the edge of madness and Mando too, their clean cut obsession with each other bubbling at their scorched limbs, each movement of muscle tight with tension. Tension that wanted to snap back like a strung out bow. Tension that wanted to burn each atom of frustration, anger, intimidation, slight jealousy at some instances, cauterize it, and break that across their bodies until each man was left in the dirt to choke on bile and blood.

“Remember what I said: you’d better hope the last time we saw each other would be the last time. The choice is yours.”

The message had shut off with a click and Mando exhaled on the squeezing air that constricted beneath his sternum. The warning wasn’t in the context of the message but rather the way the flesh eating venom dripped at the edge of each letter, taking its teeth to sink deeper on the way he said Sorgan. It sounded dirty, like he removed himself from the burrowed hole Mando’s brain, almost like their flirtatious secret was the blunt edge of the blade against his Achilles heel. Mando grew paranoid at the sound of it, flipping through the scanner to find the nearest planet.

Basic and green streaks whipped past his line of vision, back and forth between the mess of switches and the child. It was possible that he had gone back to Sorgan, snuffed out his lingering traces around the likes of Cara Dune, who would’ve fought back with equal vigor at the thought of two past lovers of the Empire. But she could handle it. Cara Dune was not the type to back down from an encounter, rather encouraging the mocking, playful game only for the reason that she would win every time.

She could handle it. Omera?  _ Not a chance.  _ Mando hissed at his frustration. His mind were blown out circuits that licked its electric sparks at his face, growing stronger and hotter at the intrusive thought of Omera’s face twisted in fear but still so brave, firm and wobbling like a pillar in a storm, mimicking the pull of Mando’s confident stature, only to falter when Dario’s damaged eye, trenches of scar tissue and rich with grey milkiness, would land on her watering ones, to speak in higher volumes that only she could interpret.

_ You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, woman.  _

Sorgan was too far. He wouldn’t make it. He growled at the calculation, still scanning and beeping, almost raising a fist to knock it out of its fitted center. He had to lay low, get out of the vastness of space, settle somewhere not so concealed and not so open for it to place a big circle on his back. A neutral ground, yes that will do, some place where the people had some common sense and didn’t gulp when a bounty hunter came strolling in with a child that may or may not be his, yes, that will do, but  _ where,  _ where could Mando hide (“I don’t run away from anything,” he had groaned to himself) and keep the child away from even the shift of temperature, anything to ground themselves as a solid tribe and  _ maybe  _ some form of normalcy--

“Dantooine. A cycle away, from where I’m at there’s open land, enough to lay the  _ Crest  _ low until I figure it out…” he trailed off when he turned around to see the child sitting up, its sluggish blinks and twitching ears cutting the darkness. Mando attempted to smirk behind his helmet. “Ready to try round two?”

* * *

There were significantly important rumors about the planet that may or may not have hindered Mando’s decision. The last thing he needed was an Imperial presence on his back tracking his every move or rebellion organizations shooting down his war torn ship. He kept checking his frazzled map to ensure his planned landing strip was still free space, as well as counting each portion and other supplies. It was hard enough to keep up with himself, his mind like shaken slivers of honeycombs with pestering bees, and with an ankle biter that was his miniature shadow. Maker, that was even worse. 

Dantooine stretched across his window, concealing the vast space into lush forests. It was still day time on the planet, the sun’s glow seeping in and on his body with blankets of marigold, strawberry red and slices of white gold. The grass was clean cut and emerald, surrounded by dancing trees and unkept weeds. They were tall enough to scrap alongside the ship, concealing it with fresh vegetation. Mando rose up from his seat to punch in ground security protocols.

“I would say to stay on the  _ Crest  _ but you’re no good at following orders.” Mando commented to the child, who was trying to peer up at the scenery. 

He punched in the command for his orb to follow him and opened the hatch. The hiss of the ship rocked his feet, steady yet sure, the first flood of sunlight basking inside when said hatch opened halfway. Seas of green and volleying hills stretched for miles, the area almost at a standstill from the whispering winds. This side of the planet was oddly quiet, he realized with an eased sigh, the stilled volume cracking with the skeleton of the ship aching and faraway cries of animals. 

His helmet scanned for any signs of life, bouncing between the robin egg sky and gatherings of native flowers. The child seemed to enjoy it as well, closing its eyes to sink into the smell of fresh air. Mando looked down at him and tilted his helmet, trying to immerse himself in the same innocent bliss he was finding the child in. The smell of fresh vegetation, earthy with a heavy weight of rainwater, snuck up a gap in his helmet but the filtered air kept him from fully enjoying it. Everything was light and weightless, painted with sunkissed watercolors that bled off the page. 

It was no wonder why the rebellion would choose such a place to have their base. It was a p aradisiac dream, gleaming and shimmering with a lace of gold, something that could be tangible and obtainable, you can taste it on your tongue the moment you hit the atmosphere. Yet, like a lot of things that were stopped by the clutches of the Empire, nothing was free to claim without a price. It would have to do, this slice of normalcy, until he had to hyper jump to the next planet in the system. 

No consistency, no real reason to sink your bones into something solid, nothing to truly claim with your hand on the earth and your eyes to the sky. That’s all the Mandalorian knew and it softened his exterior to a palpable clay, his shape influenced by his sudden attachment to the child and his desire to give the youngling the best life possible.

Eopies croaked at the top of a hall, grazing along the grass and buckets of feed. Mando tensed and stopped walking to study the odd sight. The last time he had seen the creatures were on Tatooine, carrying vials of water and bags of sand. His observation had shifted through his body, landing a lazy hand on his blaster while he trekked up the hill to conceal himself behind a high pillar. 

“I could see your suit gleaming a mile away.”

His body turned like a crack of a whip, blaster flying upwards to aim nowhere in particular. He was faced with an eopie, its thick breath fogging his visor. A large walking stick, decorated with red and white wrappings, pointed at his helmet. 

“It’s no good to snuck up on me, don’t let this size fool you!”

Mando looked down to face an older woman. She stared at him with investigative eyes, aging skin pulling back from her beady hazel eyes. One hand rested underneath a basket of roots and the other smoothing back silver strands away from her face. She rested her stick on her pointy shoulders, pulling forward to secure its grip. Her thin lips snarled upwards, revealing a row of silver teeth that rested on the back of her full cheeks. She took long strides towards him, eyes still locked in the window of his beskar, swaying back and forth while the roots rolled around. She circled Mando, her bare feet digging circles into the dirt, carefully treading to gather his image. Part of him wanted to snicker at the bite that the woman possessed but he remained statuesque with the child next to him.

“Are you going to steal my eopies?” she sneered, trying to find any indication that he was a man. 

“I’m not a fan of eopies,” he mumbled. “Just trying to scope out the area.”

She nodded, lowering her eyes to the child. “Your armour… I have seen the likes of you when I was a young woman. You’re a Mandalorian.”

Mando offered a twitch of a nod, letting her continue her search. “Is this your child?”

“Yes,” he neither confirmed nor denied, swallowing at the sound of the word, the way it dripped with mild affection. She began to ease up when the youngling cooed at her, raising its three fingers to grasp the basket of roots. She smirked at it but returned to her usual scowl when she looked back at Mando. “He is with me.”

“You shouldn’t be traveling far with a child this young.” she whispered, hiking up the basket further on her hip.

_ If only you knew he was older than me. _

“Come. You will stay in my village.”

She left no room for Mando to argue yet he followed her upwards, the beskar on his knees knocking against each other like spurs. “That’s… very kind of you. Thank you.”

“Thank the Maker I have a small spot for odd looking children.” she cackled at her own joke, tugging at the eopie with her leading stick. 

The village at the top of the hill was quaint and surprisingly intimate. The doors of neighboring houses were open, flooding in the same warmth that basked on the ship, its inhabitants sitting on barrels and crates of rations. Children ran by to play with each other, flashes of brown, beige, green and cream whipping by. The child followed them with great interests, exclaiming in its infantile language to grab their attention. Tucked in the corner was a crescent shaped home, patches of wood and cloth on the roof. The front door was shaded with a tattered blanket, wind chimes made from animal bones, sculpted glass and thread singing its song when she passed by it to tuck behind the home. She removed the eopie from her stick and placed the roots on the floor.

She sighed and took down her braid, twisting the strands of silver and gingerbread brown back together. She leaned against the doors with relaxed shoulders and cocked hips. “My name is Selia. I can’t offer much in terms of lodging, but I can cook a mean plate of cushnip or eopie meat if that’s your style.”

Mando’s modulated voice cracked a chuckle. “Your kindness is enough, the youngling and I appreciate your help.”

She threw back her braid, the end of it bouncing on her lower back. “What brings you to a place like Dantooine?”

“I seek refuge.” he answered a bit too quickly, his ears burning from the sudden rush. 

“Ha! On a planet like Dantooine? You do not have enough credits to stay at the capital, Mandalorian?”

“I would prefer to lay low for a while.”

She hummed at his answer, reaching out to touch the child. Mando reached for his blaster but hesitated from her concerned brows. They stared at each other for a beat, her only indication to continue was with his lowered palm to clutch his side. She picked him up and inspected his body.

“What a peculiar child,” she murmured to herself. “Peculiar indeed. Are you hungry, child?”

He responded with a chirp, reaching his arms to clutch her shirt. She chuckled at his action and slotted him on her hip. “And you? Will you eat with us?”

“I am not hungry,” he shuffled. “You can just feed the child for now.”

“Ha!” she cracked. “He says for me to do it. I haven’t been a mother in years, boy…!”

She weaved past him with the child out the door towards a crowd of women. Mando followed behind her with careful steps, still scoping out the area for any hidden surprises. Selia hoisted the child up to show off, a chorus of coos and gasping hands erupting from the middle of the circle. 

Selia searched the crowd until expanding her eyes towards a petite woman.

“Ah, my sweet girl, come, we have guests!”

Everything that came afterwards, well, was on the cusp of a sick dream and overstimulated reality.

They say when you lay your eyes on a certain moment, something cracks the euphoric code in your brain, time ceases to exist. It slurs down to a syrupy drip, delicate and sweet, clumping at the edge of your mouth and thickening your swallows at the cusp of your throat. Sometimes it would come in a rush of energy, heavy like a thunderstorm and swirling like the eye of a hurricane, knocking your knees together like skeletal chimes, taking out the last heave of breath that your seized lungs could allow to escape. A shiver of a moment, silenced and sheathed by opulence, deafening with its tragic weight upon the victim’s senses. 

Mando felt it all at once and nothing at all. His limbs were frozen at the spot, ice biting his clenching teeth, rolling behind the beskar with a maddening grind. Her frame came in snapshots, blinding from the flash and cast of sunbeam, starting with the thick mass of hair that was pulled back at the scalp with intricate rows of braids, the ends curling in a gathered ponytail that rested at the nape of her neck. He had never seen eyes like hers, honeyed and glimmering with a resting fondness that it made his heart simply  _ ache  _ at the unfiltered kindness. 

Then came her lips, plump with pillowed pink and pulled back with a tired and gentle smile. His fingertips twitched at the visual warmth of it, melting away the ice that chapped him beneath his thermal wear, wanting to burrow into what he would assume was sunkissed silk, exposed beneath a cream dress that hugged her hips and waist, twirling at the rounded joints of her knees. 

The rush nearly sent him through a whirlwind when she looked up at him, eyes searching for his behind the tinted glass. He stood still but inside hot lava spilled across his body, warranting another reaction to prove that this was real, that this sudden rush of infatuation wasn’t some hyper real dream that would leave him behind a mess of melancholy. 

She took the child from Selia and walked towards him, a rush of children passing in front of her. Her steps were eager and skipped at the end, fingers rubbing at the edge of the child’s ears. Mando shuffled in his place one more time, reminding his skipping brain to at least  _ act  _ like nothing was wrong, that the opulent image in front of him wasn’t causing him to short circuit on the spot, making a mockery of his hardened exoskeleton. 

And at that moment, all the dust settled around her, like a veil, encompassed around the slivers of sunshine that she radiated from her own flesh. Mando gulped and erected his spine, clutching his fist at his side.

"Are you a Mandalorian?" she asked, her round lips curved upwards to a seemingly curious smile.

"Yeah," his modulated voice trembled. "Something like that." 

She giggled and blinked, biting the inside of her cheek. “Something like that… So you walk around with Mandalorian armour as if it was yours?”

_ Maker, her voice.  _ “N-No, I am a Mandalorian.”

“Ah, I’ve never met one,” she continued, ignorant of his blubbering state. “I’ve heard about them from the rebels that have stopped by. Never had the privilege of meeting them, though.”

She stuck out her hand and chirped her name, dulcet and soft along the palate. He repeated it under his breath, heart banging against his ribcage in fear that she would hear him taste it on his tongue. He hesitated to shake her hand, afraid to immerse himself in her touch. Any sign of warmth from her would only make it harder on him to not fall into the temptation of bottling that warmth and softness, so pliable and achingly sweet, so he sighed into it when he reminded himself that the leather barrier would save him just this one time. She squeezed a bit and pulled her hand back, resting it to bounce the child upwards.

“He is your child?” she inquired, still rubbing its ears. 

“He is a youngling.” his chest tugged forward when her brows frowned sadly.

“Oh yeah?” she groaned, resting another hand on her hip. “Is he of your flesh and blood? Or of your image?”

Mando tilted his helmet back. “I don’t understand.”

She stepped closer to search his gaze, his shamefully darting in his skull to memorize each freckle, scar and smooth silk. “It’s a saying from my people. Children that have biological parents are of their flesh and blood. Younglings, or children that are raised by the village, are of the image of their people. They’re sculpted by their environment. Is this so for your youngling?”

“I hope that’s not the case for this child. He would be off to a rough start.”

She offered him a stifled giggle, to which he volleyed with a strained modulated grunt that could be interpreted as a chuckle. “I also hope that’s not the case, Mandalorian!”

Selia wrapped an arm around her, dancing her fingers on her exposed shoulders.“I see that my girl has made her way to you,” she mused. “A burst of energy, that’s just who she is, a burst of energy. Really addicting if you allow her to be.”

She gaped at her comment, wiggling underneath her embrace. “Selia, I just met the man and you’re already tainting my reputation!”

She rolled her eyes at the protesting girl. “Put your reputation to the test and help me with dinner, it’s my turn tonight.”

“Would you like the child back?” she asked, raising him up when Mando pulled the crib forward. She placed him back down, to which he protested with a whine. She turned around to walk towards Selia but stopped, resting her chin on her shoulder. 

“You two must be starving. Come, if you help me I’ll offer you the ripest Jogan fruit that I have!”

Mando gulped back the sand that had been scratching his throat since her eyes snapped radiant blinks at him. Attachment was never good in a business like this, attachment was never something he calculated.This was supposed to be in and out. Just stay for one night, maybe two if she batted her eyes a bit more, and then they would leave, letting her choke on the same sand that kicked up at him. This new fervid glow was sweeter than the fruit she could offer from her petal lips. 

And it scared the living hell out of him. 

He followed her to the pit that settled in the middle of the village, the licking orange flames calling his name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another short chapter, I just wanted to get it out of the way so I can get started on the ~good kush~
> 
> Also! Should I begin to use a name, just for the story to flow better? Or a nickname? What are y'all thoughts? Let me know!!
> 
> Also! Just a side note I made a playlist dedicated to the trilogy, it's currently private but if y'all want me to drop a link I can make an exception haha


	5. Like a Supernova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "On the day of her birth a supernova crashed into the sky. She grew up like the storm, full of color and blistering beauty. Her birth name is just as beautiful but we call her Nova for that reason."
> 
> She looked at Mando and chewed her lip, a habit that was growing on the man. "Silly, like I said--"
> 
> "No," he insisted, almost too quickly. "No. It suits you."

The child had already become accustomed to the bustling village as soon as he was put down on the dirt floor. He first followed a group of children that clamored around him, curiously poking his ears, then to the eopies that bayed at him (to which Mando whisked him away from before they could peck at his little fingers), finally waddling towards the crowd of villagers that were setting up the firepit. The sun had begun to set on the planet, spreading a warm chickadee color, lingering day clouds making its way to leave the sky. The atmosphere had also begun to shift into a softer cool standstill, much to his relief, considering his body was on fire for what seemed like excruciating hours. At least the child was finding its footpath around the small village, cooing to everyone’s curious delight. At least there were people attending to him as if he was their own.

Mando, on the other hand, was as blendable to the background like the pillars to their housing.

Which was good, all things considered. No warranted attention, no fluttering flips in his stomach. He had figured the opposite to a Mandalorian, an unfamiliar figure around these parts. There were the occasional whispers, mostly at the glimmering reflection of his unsheathed beskar from his fluttering cape, however they were drowned out by the hammering sound of his heartbeat in his ears. How did it get to be so  _ loud? _ Not even in the heat of battle where he thrived off of the adrenaline to oil his aching bones did it sound so poignant, so deafening that when she spoke, his brain stuttered back on like his floating piece of garbage that was parked feet away.

“Is it too much for me to ask for your help, Mandalorian?” a voice peeped from his left, soft like a whisper but loud enough to interrupt his slurred thought process.

“Sure.” he replied coolly, looking down. She smiled sweetly, staring through the tinted visor, tilting her head slightly.

“I have to gather some wood from my home, as well as gather some more fruit for you and the child,” she motioned for him to follow. Mando looked behind him to find the child sitting on the floor, watching children kicking a makeshift cloth ball with their feet. “You can leave him here, at the firepit. He’s being watched by the other moms.”

He looked back at her, searching for a way to protest against the idea of leaving his newest responsibility with a village that has associated themselves with forces that may or may not be harmful. But her words were soft, easy with reassurance and care, including the way she stared at him back. It made him gulp but he nodded slowly, letting her lead the way. 

She skipped ahead, twirling a piece of loose hair from her behind her ear.“I wanted to make something more suitable for him, if that’s okay.”

“That’s not necessary,” Mando insisted, catching up to walk beside her. “He’ll eat anything.”

She pursed her lips and waved her hand. “Yeah, tell me about it. I just saw him trying to eat a spider while we set up the pit!”

Mando winced at the image but kept his head forward. “Yeah he’s uh, he’s a menace.”

“ _ You’re  _ menace, I’m sure.”

Two women skidded by them, glaring upwards at his blinding pauldron, carrying two baskets of the same root Selia had. She made a quick sharp left and at the end of the small walkway was a dome shaped adobe hut, warm light bleeding out a large window pane. Similar windchimes decorated the front door, carved seashells dangling under pumice stones, swaying with the wind to release a faint  _ ding.  _

She gathered her dress from her hips and raised it up to her knees, trotting towards the door. Mando dared to look down and noticed a long scar curving upwards the fold of her knee, silver peach and broad, up to the flash of her thigh. She turned her head to rest her chin on her shoulder, smirking at the awkward stance of the bounty hunter. Mando’s hands were clasped behind him, helmet inclined towards the floor, however shot up by the shift of her growing shadow.

“You coming?” her brows frown upwards along with the corner of her mouth. 

Her eyes glanced over his stiff and awkward stance. He felt over analyzed, maybe a touch insecure, noticing his taut shoulders and locked knees. His head bobbed closely to a nod and followed suit. He wasn’t aware of his careful movement at the time, calculated to her attention, almost afraid of her unwarranted judgement.

She stepped over a laundry basket on the side of her home and held onto the wall, skipping her fingers on the sculpted clay. They trekked through tall grass and scattered yellow native flowers until they turned a corner, revealing a mass of crates and wood.

“If you could, can you grab some firewood and I’ll look through some fruit?”

Mando nodded and bent down to the wood, groaning softly at the sensation of his aching knees. She opened a crate and folded her torso inside, rolling around different fruits to check its firmness.

“Mandalorian,” she called out, waiting to hear him pause on a log. “Do you prefer jogan or horned melon?”

He frowned his eyebrows at her question. It was a peculiar question without it being… peculiar. He was used to people throwing him whatever they could find, fresh or leathered, or even not offering anything at all. However she held the two in her small hands, straining upwards with the flip of her hair, waiting for his response.  _ Weird. _

The pause was unnecessarily long so he coughed. “Whatever you think is best.”

Her gaze was brief yet open, flashing a bit of teeth back to the hunter. “Jogan, then.”

As she placed various fruits on the basket, Mando did what he did best and studied. That was the benefit of the creed, the anonymity shielded behind beskar. It allowed him to scan the area without even twitching a muscle, to express and motion at certain actions without any indication of his true intention. It made moments like the one before him all the more beneficial. 

Initially he felt unworthy at the sight of her concentrated state, as if he was witnessing something sacred and consecrated, something that should be hidden behind brick and mortar to collect dust and sunlight. Ever since he saw a sliver of her scar he wondered not only when and where it came from, but if she had more. Were there other planes of skin, prickled and pinned with pain, tainted by someone’s fault? Was she clumsy and did it herself? He watched her feet skip past a log and his palm itched to reach out to grab her, taking her delicately by the fold of her elbow so the rest of her honeyed skin wouldn’t be damaged.

But he knew better. He knew a strong woman when he saw one and by the fold and curve of her muscle, strong and solid in its firmness, not even breaking a sweat from her hairline at the strain. She walked with her spine erect and no strain to her face, even bending down with a quick hop to grab another log in her free arm. She passed him with purpose and he noticed that she had another scar down her sideburn, more peachy to match the undertone of her skin, as well as small birthmarks scattered across her cheeks. Her shoulders rounded out beneath her dress and her neck was slender and smooth like carved brown granite, glistening from the sinking sun. 

Following behind her he observed how her hips would rise by each swing, back and forth like a slow pendulum, almost as if she glided across the dirt floor. There was a lightness to her presence, feathered and rippling against his strained chest to command him to simply  _ relax,  _ follow the warm yellow light that beckons from her skin back to the firepit, just to see her smile at you as if she knew you her whole life. It all felt familiar, too familiar for his shut off systems, almost like--

_ Sorgan.  _ The damp smell of krill and vegetation. Omera, her daughter, the warmth of broth and the child’s coos, the last clean cut of a home he’s had in forever.

Dantooine was no Sorgan. Its outstretched plains had hints of further political occupation; he judged that from the scattered pieces of metal ration containers and interfering comms through his static haze of a radio interceptor. Dantooine was cutting close with his ability to lay low but he didn’t want to overthink it, not for a few days a least until he had his bearings. Not enough to sweat over it, not enough to get too comfortable.

She turned to the side and waited on him to catch up, watching his pauldron spark back at her. “So… I’m sure Selia has grilled you by now, but what brings you to Dantooine?”

“Need to lay low for a bit,” he explained easily. “Just want to take a break for the kid and I.”

“Does your youngling have a name?”

He shook his head. “No, not yet at least.”

“May I ask how come?”

“He was… a job.”

She tilted her head in curious thought. “Oh? A job? What do you mean, what do you do?”

The hitch in her voice hesitated his own answer. There was a lingering fear of judgement from her lowered tone. Which, in itself, was ridiculous to a man who took judgement and opinion with a grain of salt and grit of teeth. As if it mattered what she thought, as if he could do much to ease the creasing of her eyes over the chickadee sun and plump bottom lip that was being chewed out from her bunny teeth. 

When in fact, in its cruel twist of a love stricken knife, it mattered immensely to him.

“I’m a bounty hunter. He was my bounty…” he began but his modulated voice shifted into a slight hitch at the strict strain around the sound of the word ‘bounty’. She noticed this and hiked up the basket further up her hip.

“So you decided to take care of him instead?” she finished for him, earning a small nod. “That’s very kind of you, you know. You’re giving him another chance. That’s admirable.” She nudged him with her elbow, sending him a toothy grin. “I can’t guarantee much but you should consider yourself lucky to be in a village like this. You can stay as long as you two need.”

His words burned with the bile of his words. There had to be a faulty nut or bolt in his system, a ghost in his shell, for him to feel this… loose? Light? Buoyant? A sweet vertigo that made him swim behind his visor? She had fallen silent and he gritted his thanks between his clenched jaw, flexing his fist open and closed in his awkward frustration. 

More villagers had gathered with baskets of fruit, meat and roots when they arrived back. The child was leaning against a log but chirped at the sight of his adopted father, rising from the floor to waddle towards him. He leaned against his leg with his hands up, earning a sigh from Mando. He set down the logs by the middle of the pit to grab the child, placing him next to him on an open bench. She also set down her basket and pulled out a small pocket knife from it. Mando raised his brows behind the beskar but she felt his stare on her back, burying itself into the crook of her neck upwards. 

“I can peel some fruit for the child to chew on until the meal is ready, if that’s okay with you?” she asked sheepishly, feeling a flushing heat around the apples of her cheeks.

“He would like that, thank you.” Mando gruffly murmured, looking down at the child who cocked his ears to the side to smile at him.

Mando was clueless to her peaked attention. Of course she had noticed the burning hole he bore into her when they walked back and forth from her home to the firepit. He was a stoic as it came, hardly interpreted by the modulated hiss of his voice, but all the more interesting. She was not lying when she told him that she had heard of Mandalorians and their glistening legends. Word traveled fast in the galaxy and even the smallest on planets like Dantooine knew as much as the top dogs on planets like Coruscant or Naboo.

Stories that described warriors in bright and polished armour, faces hidden behind their creed and religious nature with war and weaponry. Their stories, whispered in the wind to only those who were listening close enough to hear the echo of detail, as if the ghosts of the Empire could hear them. She had wondered if he had heard the whipping blood to her skin or the deafening beat of her heartrate in her ears, left in thought if he could taste her curious fear in the air. It was inexplicably unnerving for him to walk into the village with the aging Selia. 

However there was a… tenderness to him. Like the contrasting steel was suppressing the true man. He was enigmatic, limited to clipped phrases and longing regard and it kept her intrigued for so long that it pulled her to sit next to the child, rubbing the tip of his ear with a free hand. She laid the jogan fruit on her lap and unclipped the blade. She then looked down at the cooing child who blinked slowly at her, pursing his bottom lip at the sight of the fruit.

“You’re so  _ cute _ ,” she cooed back, picking up the fruit from her lip. “Weird looking. But cute.”

A modulated choke that sounded like a chuckle escaped Mando’s voice, earning a chuckle from her. “He is a bit weird looking.”

“Just a bit,” she agreed, slicing the fruit into a neat square. “Here you go my sweet, this’ll hold you down until the food is done.”

“Nova, did you bring more firewood?” Selia called out, unfolding parchment paper stuffed with meat.

“Yes, it’s right next to the Mandalorian!” she peeped out, cutting the small square into small slivers. She looked up at him and noticed his stare again, now the apparent crimson across her cheeks.

_ Nova.  _

_ Nova? _

_ Yeah, Nova. _

He wanted to say it out loud, to watch her eyes spark at the sound of his modulated nature, to get used to the taste of it. She slipped a piece of jogan into the child’s mouth and shrugged. 

“That’s my nickname, I don’t usually go by my birth name unless my mother is yelling at me,” she breathed a laugh. “It’s kind of a funny story, actually…”

“Why is that?” Mando’s voice scraped low while he wiped the dripping fruit juice from the child’s chin.

Nova found herself suppressing a shiver at the way his voice modulator deepened the tone into something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It elicited a reaction from her that she hadn’t felt in, well,  _ ever  _ she thought. Like fluttering wings or skipping stones across a pond, small hops and springs of a spark that was suppressed by her tense frame. She rubbed her lips together in thought, finding a quick way to explain it before the attention remained on her, until Selia plopped in front of her to throw the logs into the pit.

"On the day of her birth a supernova crashed into the sky. It burned into the sky with great vigor. She grew up like the storm, full of color and blistering beauty. Her birth name is just as beautiful but we call her Nova for that reason."

She looked at Mando and chewed her lip, a habit that was growing on the man. "Silly, like I said--"

"No," he insisted, almost too quickly. "No. It suits you."

Her skin prickled with that same fondness she tried to suppress but she let it ripple across her arms, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. The child whined and pulled her hand closer to chew on the opened fruit, however he missed and began to suckle on her finger. She winced at the sudden pressure and peeled a thicker slice with her finger, letting him hold it in his hands to chew. Nova hadn’t noticed her eyes boring into the curve of his helmet’s chin until a spark of orange licked the glimmering silver, illuminating his profile. The fire crackled and she leaned in to collect the warmth from the popping embers on her exposed shins. 

“Do you… do you want me to make you dinner and I’ll bring it to your room later?” Nova suggested with a shy murmur, propping the child to sit on her lap. She placed the jogan fruit next to her to scoot closer to Mando, whose hips seem to grind into the wood so hard he grunted at the sensation. 

“Oh… wait did we even situated lodging for you?”

“No, but--”

“I can make you something quick and you can eat in my home--”

“That’s not necessary--”

“No, it’s fine I just know--”

“-- It’s only because of the--”

“--the  _ helmet,  _ I did read that you don’t remove it in front of people--”

Selia raised her hands and dropped them on her lap suddenly, an exasperated look in her eyes widening the frame. Nova jumped at the sound yet Mando stayed still, as if he was expecting that kind of reaction. She rose up from her squatted position and laid a hand on the swell of her back.

“You,” she pointed a bony finger at Mando. “Will be staying in the makeshift shed across from Nova’s home. Nova, you and the child will eat first and he can bring his own plate to his new place. There. Figured out.”

Nova blinked at the demand but nodded in response. Mando saw a flash of red run down her chest, inflating and deflating rapidly. She wrung her hands together until Selia placed a clay plate in her lap, letting the child grip it as well. 

“Here, I can hold him until you’re done.” he offered, motioning with open palms. She turned her torso for him to grab the child, propping her forearms a bit forward to lift him up. His forearm plates skipped on her skin and he felt himself rise with a rush of blood at the limited contact. Mando held his breath until the child sat still in his lap, wishing that his sleeve would’ve raised just a tad to confirm the prediction of her supple skin. The beskar was oddly cold on her heated skin, nipping as the edge clipped her wrist. That same fluttering feeling returned and she had wondered if the skin underneath was artificial or not. 

_ I mean, I did offer him food. _

_ What if he’s a droid and he’s being nice? _

_ What if he doesn’t even kriffing  _ eat  _ meat and I’m over here making an assumption-- _

The meat plopped on her plate with a wet slap. Throughout the meal she glances up at the Mandalorian, who remained stoic to the flame, wondering if the beskar were to catch flame and boil, what it would reveal.

* * *

“Here is your bed. I found a small crate and cushioned it with some old cloth from my mother’s basket. It’s a tight fit but I hope it’s okay.”

The shed was indeed tight, however just a tad more cozy than the  _ Razor Crest.  _ The makeshift bed laid on the floor, built with sewn material and stuffed cotton, as well as what Mando would assume a grey pillow and throw blanket. She had placed the meat and boiled root on a cloth napkin next to the mattress, along with another plate of sliced fruit. The window bled sliced light of the moon, the native insects singing their nocturnal tune. She stood awkwardly in the middle of the room with the crib, her shoulders sore from the earlier activities.

Mando sucked in the paused air and sighed, feeling his fatigue grind on his old bones. “This is just fine. Thank you.”

Nova’s lips curved into a small smirk. “You’re very welcome. You will be here tomorrow, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I will see you bright and early. Or…”

She paused with the rest of her sentence on her tongue.  _ Or whenever you decide to see me again. _

She turned her heels towards the door, pausing to whisper a sweet good night to the green child, softly closing the door behind her. She leaned against it for a moment, shaking a tremor through her body that was pulled tight since he arrived on Dantooine. Her stomach lept at the sudden sound of his armour clinking against each other, quickly darting across the way to avoid the danger of seeing too much.

The child was snoring by the time his tiny head laid in the crate. He burrowed his head deeper into the confines of the crate and softly sighed. Mando took the time to carefully peel off his armour one by one, ceremoniously placing them along the edge of the bed for easy access. The first gulp of air was sweet and heavy as he let the cool air kiss the damp curls that laid on his forehead. He placed the plate on the windowsill and looked across the way, watching as several lights blinked off for the night, the village falling into a silent lull. 

The Mandalorian didn’t want to bother on the idea of home again. That wound wasn’t cauterized yet and he didn’t plan on doing it soon, maybe out of some sick masochistic reminder that a concept like that was as far out of reach as the endless pools of ink in the galaxy. It wasn’t healthy to rely so heavily on an idea that could be ripped away from him, like a clutching baby’s hand on his cape, the same baby’s hand that he had decided to make his fate. 

After swallowing the food whole he laid on the pillow, grunting at the roughness of the texture. It wasn’t pleasant to say the least but it was more than what should’ve been offered. He twirled the fruit in his hand, perfectly ripe and periwinkle, placing the flesh on his lips before pausing.

She had taken a few bites herself from this same fruit. Her hands gripped it so tightly that some of the juice dripped from the floor. Is this what she tasted like? Is this what her pillowed lips were stained with, a tang that could be chased with the thrill of the trip of his tongue?

_ Don’t be so stupid.  _

Mando sank his teeth into the flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long and that it's so short!! I'm thinking to put this bad boy on a schedule, every Sunday I'll strive for an update. Definitely expect a better chapter next time around!
> 
> Also! Here's a link to my playlist for this series, I like to listen to these songs because it really immerses me in my writing. If you like this kind of stuff, here you go! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Gsb1xThdGZvA6sUgtRTUi?si=CtsSZEUBQl2ButsijNVTtw
> 
> Again, thank you for enjoying this trilogy with me, I do enjoy soft!Mando as much as the next person (: I didn't closely edit this because I'm a bit tired so if there's any glaring blemishes let a girl know!


	6. Soft, Diffused, Gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s already introducing you to Maia? Huh.” Selia raised her brows, quirking a small teasing small. Mando doesn’t respond with words but just stared back, Selia squinting at the shine of his beskar hitting the sun’s angle. 
> 
> “She never introduced her mother to any of the village’s guests. You must be special, Mandalorian.”

Mando’s head rolled off his shoulders and shot up with a sudden hitch in his throat, his left hand on the blaster that laid on his stomach. Although the mattress was in much better condition than what’s on the  _ Razor Crest,  _ his dizzying mind wouldn’t stop bouncing off his indented temples enough for him to fully succumb to the numb desire to sleep. He had imagined Nova’s glowing smile, the plump round flesh tucked behind her teeth, humming in his ears like the incessant insects that sang with the moon, just to give his insomnia an excuse. He wanted to sink into the thought of her, as if she was a figment and not a tangled mess he could coil around his shaking hands. As if that could give him a resolution, a rocking reason to slip off the helmet and sink to what he had hoped was her scent. By the way she beamed at him he imagined something fresh, like scrubbed laundry in foaming bubbles or whipping stems in a field. If he were to deduce it even further he would come up with the fact that, by the way her eyes held his hidden gaze, gentle yet chasing for something a bit more tangible to hold herself down, she’d smell like a sweet spray of citrus fruit on the curve of his nostrils or bountiful handfuls of currants, something that he could stick to the back of his teeth and taste later.

The last time Mando had considered such miniscule details about someone was… well… he couldn’t put his leathered finger on it. He had never seen something or someone that stuffed him a glass box, filling it with water, watching as he helplessly flapped around to regain any form of motor skill, holding him hostage with a blooming smile. Throughout the evening it filled his helmet and he found himself gulping the salty currents again rather than form the words that ached his pressed skull. He hadn’t known something more weak, something more stomach splitting and teeth rotting than the sheer, than the unfiltered affection he had on a woman that he barely knew. 

Before the morning's dew welcomed him, when the eopies grunted and snored, he rose from his mattress like a reanimated corpse. He wrestled with the grip of sleep and snapped it back into his lowered back, pushing forward on his forearms in a rushed huff, ignoring the way the taut muscles begged for him to lay back down. He had his few hours of sleep, it was enough to at least kickstart a bit more fuel into his old bones, so he decided to pace in the small shed from corner to corner. He looked at the child who gripped his makeshift blanket and slept with his lips slightly ajar, soft snores escaping his nostril slits. Mando brushed his bare hand against the plump curve of his cheek, pausing to pull up with his thumb to winkle his kin.

He had slipped on the helmet as soon as he finished his meal. He hadn’t even gotten the last gulp down before he pushed it down, practically choking on the cured meat as he worked to swallow it down. He looked down at the jogan fruit’s skin, cuts of his teeth indented into the lingering flesh that clutched onto the piece, throwing it to the side. He leaned his head against the frame of the window and just watched every piece of dirt curl from the winds, hopping nocturnal amphibians and insects pass by, and languid blinks of inky moonlight.

As ridiculous as it sounded, Mando was afraid to even  _ gaze  _ at Nova’s hut.

He knew it had to be an ungodly hour for anyone to be awake. These were the times where the darkness was at its all time ferocity, its depth so far out that if one were to reach for it they would plop down into an endless dark plight. There were only two types of beings that could even fathom to be up; ones that couldn’t help it and ones that thrived in it. He had wondered which category he was in and with the way his bones and muscles would sing against the action of his detached mind, he would fall into the latter. The light in the hut flickered left and right so curiosity got the better of him at the end.

Her shadow beckoned at the window with a hazy grey, as if she was solid smoke. Her head had whipped to the side and shook in some kind of disagreement, confusing Mando, until her voice hissed in a hushed whisper.

“I know mama, but you haven’t eaten all night and that’s what’s worrying me.”

Nova stood in front of the window and looked past Mando, her arms folded across her chest and chewing her bottom lip. She petted strands of her hair back and sighed, closing her eyes and rocking herself back and forth. Mando tilted his head to watch further but felt the warmth of embarrassment rise in shivering tendrils. She forced a small smile back on her face and picked up a small bowl from her left side.

“Yeah mama. I know. But it would help me sleep better if you had something… how about a jogan shake? You love those.”

She turned away from the window but her shadow warped the arch of her hut, bent over. Her hand stretched out in a delicate motion, the roll of her shoulders indicating she was caressing something or someone. The moment of affection was slow, circling around in the pit of his belly as it was a familiar spirit, as if the invoked emotion was desired by a ghost that he kept deep inside the clutch of longing. Mando closed his eyes and watched a frog hop towards the gathering of sleeping eopies.

* * *

The child held onto Mando’s cape, clutching further down to envelope him behind his shin. The eopies bayed and stomped around, tugging at the worn leather leash, huffing frustrated sighs towards Nova. She sighed and scrunched her face sourly, resting her free hand on her hip.

“It’s like your breath smells worse with each passing day...” she commented, hissing when it bayed in her face with glaring teeth. 

Mando stood by and watched her tie them to the opposite side of an open pasture, searching her scenery for her next move. She peeped a confirmation at a bucket of water, hauling it upwards to rest on the side of her waist. She motioned for Mando to grab the other one with a nod of her head. 

“They’re usually not this…” she motioned with another nod, shaking away a drop of sweat. “Maker they’re just so  _ damn sour. _ ”

“Sounds like they cause more harm than good to you.” Mando commented, his vocador crackling at her exasperated sigh. 

She rolled her eyes and poured the water into a rusted water basin. “Eopies have a temper like you wouldn’t believe. I just don’t have the patience to deal with them today.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

His tone was light yet tight with security. He had hoped his cracking voice didn’t translate into her ears. She gave off no suspicious looks, simply closing her eyes and looking up into the sky. Her shoulders sank with a deep breath and Mando noticed another scar that looped under her armpit, much more jagged and puffy with silver indention. He cocked his head to the side and she squinted at the gleam of his beskar.

“A hard night, I’d say..." she trailed off. "And you, Mando? Did you sleep well?"

_ Maker, her voice. _ "Yes, I did."

"Oh good, that's good--" she began before chirping a gasp, the child jumping slightly at the noise while he was on his way to the basin. “Oh! I haven’t even introduced you to my mother yet! You’ve met literally  _ everyone else,  _ that’s so embarrassing!”

A warm spread of heat crept up her face and she turned to look at Mando. The leveled heat prickled at her honey skin with trills of embarrassment from her outburst, but she softened her strained features when she figured Mando was staring right back.  _ Never show honored guests that you are acting out,  _ she remembered her mother hissing one day when she was a child.  _ You weren’t raised by rancors, small Nova.  _

The entire outburst was oblivious to Mando who was at that moment rushing away a fever from his bones. The sudden soft halo that surrounded her was off putting in the sense that it whipped his head side to side and rubbed dirt in it, all too intense and all too sickening. It was as if the moment was stilled and cut from the canvas, the only indication of reality being from the chirping morning birds and shuffling feet of the villagers, a slice of… heaven? Euphoria? If Mando had been here before he wanted to remember every second of it, not necessarily on Dantooine itself, but here with Nova, sunkissed flushed and all, staring at him as if he was the innocent one in all of this. As if he wasn’t damaged goods. As if he didn’t scrub his skin every night with vigor and wretched anger because all he saw were soot and blood.

She blinked the sun out of her eyes and picked up the bucket. “I’ll take you to her now. If that’s okay?”

A beat. “Yes, I do not mind.”

“Good,” she grinned, “I told her  _ all  _ about you. She likes new guests, we used to get them when the Empire was alive and well but they come and go.”

Mando swallowed. Hard. So hard it bounced off his helmet in a forward jut.

_ I told her all about you. _

“She wished she could’ve seen you at dinner last night,” Nova continued, lagging behind to stand next to him. “She wasn’t feeling too good.”

“Is she ill?” Mando asked, feeling particularly talkative.  _ How odd. _

She nodded, lowering her eyes to watch her feet kick up dirt. “Yes. I’m not sure what it is but it started a few years ago. These days, well, she hasn’t been… doing too well… like I said...”

“It’s okay,” Mando hastily prompted. He noticed the sudden hitch in her choked voice, dropping to a raspy whisper. “I-I don’t mind waiting.”

Her grin morphed into a wide smile, her right eye crinkled almost shut. “You nervous, Mandalorian?”

He gulped but held his body still, so still, his knees locked in place. The child beside him wobbled to the side. “Should I be?”

She hummed, rolling her head back. “She’s a character, that woman. Hope you can catch up.”

“I think I can handle it.”

“I sure hope you can, Mando, wouldn’t be a great impression if you didn’t.”

* * *

The Mandalorian was a man of power. Sheer power, the kind of power that you would only  _ dream  _ of having, so casual yet fibrous, a kind of power that was only matched with torn muscle built on torn muscle, gathering itself to harden all the layers he hid himself behind. He was a manifested nightmare, calloused and elusive and downright  _ terrifying,  _ as if he could help but send tendrils of prickling fear down every patron he’s passed in a cantina, every villager that has dared to even glance in his direction. And even so, as palpable and intense his identity was he just… well, The Mandlorian, the image of strength, the image of spirited creed and thick hot blood of their Mythosaur riding ancestors, he simply, without a doubt--

Just couldn’t  _ talk  _ to women. Pretty women at that.

Nova had carried the conversation as if he was responding with full diligence, carrying the child in the basket on her hip. At first Mando felt abashed with his sudden childish diffidence, shuffling awkwardly when she would stop to talk to the other villagers on their way back to her hut. He noticed most of the villagers were women, face weathered with the harsh sun and straw hair, their gaze lingering on his chest plate like gravitating intimidation. They marveled at Nova who seemed to be oddly relaxed and… natural? Borderline domestic, even, with their intimidating guest?

_ Don’t be such an idiot,  _ Mando chastised himself, easing the roll of his shoulders when she looked up at him.  _ You’re jumping to conclusions to a story that hasn’t even started yet. _

“Hey,” Nova whispered, poking his arm with her elbow. “Thank you for your help. I know you’d rather be relaxing in your room but… it’s nice to have someone to talk to while I work around.”

Mando secretly keened for the appreciation. “May I ask you a question?”

“You have but to ask!” She chirped, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“There aren’t any men in the village. Why is that?”

Nova was a bit taken aback by the blunt edge of his question, his head naturally tilting to the side. Her ears darkened in rushed flush but she repressed the sudden heat, chewing her bottom lip.

“The men of the village left to join the rebellion during the war,” she began. “They felt as if they had something to prove. We're just a small farming village, after all. We also had numerous young women join, for the sake of Dantooine or the same reason as the men. As you can see…” she gestured with an open palm and then clutching it shut. “They’re erased into the history of this planet. We’re not sure if our sons and daughters are out there or somewhere etched in the capital.”

“And what of you?”

“Huh?”

“What did you do?”

_ Shit. _

Mando hadn’t meant for his question to come off so interrogative and cold, suddenly feeling defensive around her lax demeanor. She suppressed a shiver and tried to ignore the way it sounded in her ears, grazing at the edge like a serrated knife, excusing it to his naturally taut nature. 

“They have asked me to leave. I was still a bit too young but-but I considered it,” she turned defensively sharp, then sighing it away. “But that’s when my mother got worse. It’s a few cycles to the capital and we didn’t have the resources to help her condition so we’ve been playing a waiting game since. I couldn't leave without a guilty conscious.”

Mando stood quiet with his hands lacking on his side. There was a twinge of sadness in her voice, as if it was dripping into some melancholic syrup that stirred in her belly, and it tore him inside into scorched pieces of pitiful shreds. Although this was still fresh he felt the aching desire to just shut her away, to apologize for his incessant need to be so  _ fucking  _ interrogative and curious that it may tear her up, to even insinuate that he could possibly cause any distress and--

He swallowed the grating agony, letting it cut his throat, translating past his modulator as a low grunt. She blinked away any distress and beamed, his chest rising with a sharp intake.

“It all works out in the end, huh? I have my purpose and I’m fine with it.”

“I’m sure your mother appreciates your dedication.” he offered, a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

“You’re very nice, Mando, even if you speak a paragraph an hour.” She teased with a small huff of a laugh.

She skipped ahead to place the bucket on the floor, picking up the child from it. She turned to Mando and nodded towards the door. “Let me see if my mom is willing to see some visitors. Can you wait here for a second?”

She swung open the door and the windchimes sung softly. Mando stood with his feet apart, hands behind his back, helmet forward. His chest and hips were pulled forward and judging by the stares in his direction, it came off as if he was guarding the hut. A woman walked by with a stern look on her weathered features, swinging her long braid in his direction, then melting into a sympathetic frown at Nova’s door. Others seemed to catch on, falling into the same pitiful gaze like dominoes, refusing to stare back into the hut’s clay glare. Selia was in the middle of a conversation with another villager of her age, waving her hands in a heated conversation, pausing next to Mando.

“She’s already introducing you to Maia? Huh.” Selia raised her brows, quirking a small teasing small. Mando doesn’t respond with words but just stared back, Selia squinting at the shine of his beskar hitting the sun’s angle. 

“She  _ never  _ introduced her mother to any of the village’s guests like this. You must be special, Mandalorian.”

Special? Special insinuates importance, importance is a particular way of assuming that you were held at a pedestal so high they had no choice but to bask in the purest expression of adoration. Words, in its simplicity, weigh nothing. Lighter than a feather, as tangible as air. In its worst intention, its deepest trenches, they’re bone crushing and cruel, and to him, he’d rather let it pinch him into a splattering mess of marrow and blood than to acknowledge the way it spread in his plastered chest. The words were porous and sunk into his skin like the bleeding sun, past the beskar, past the tunic that stuck to his skin like another layer of miserable skin, and he hated  _ every second of it.  _ Thank the Maker for the protection of the Mandalorian helmet, the absolute security compressing the dizzying words to buzz in his ears and deafening the rattling chaos in his chest. 

By the time Mando even  _ had  _ the time to process any other train of thought Nova tapped his pauldron with a soft  _ ting,  _ the child’s coos shrilling at the sight of his father.

“She’s excited to see you!” Nova chirped, rubbing the corners of the child’s ears. “Come in, the ceiling is low so be careful, okay?”

Mando did as he was told and ducked, scanning the area. Soft bubbling from a cast iron pot lulled in the corner, the soft smell of spice permeating the air. The kitchen was modest and small, tucked away in the corner with clay plates and cast iron pots, baskets of fruit and root stacked in the corner. A large circular carpet, hand woven with azure, russet, dusty pink and olive green criss-cross patterns, lay in the middle of the open space with two wooden chairs, the crackling of fire nipping in the summer air. There was a small oval hallway, dark and seemingly foreboding to his heightened senses. He chose to ignore it and searched for Nova.

A small groan breaks the silence and his head snapped to the side, trying to pinpoint the noise. In the right corner laid a mass of blankets and pillows, all varying in color and texture, riding up the wall. A mass of peppered curls splayed on top of a knitted quilt, shuffling in the mass of fabric with slurred movement. Another groan and cough, making the child squirm in concern, until the smallest rasp of a voice lifted from the shuffle.

“Is that him, Nova?” it asked, full of warmth.

“Yeah mama,” she whispered, lifting a shaking hand from the mass. “C’mere Mando so she can get a better look at you.”

The woman sat up and smiled weakly at him. She seemed so young for her frail state, her eyes a rich chestnut, round and encircled with thick lashes. Her face was flushed and pinched with a sickly yellow color, yet her chapped lips held the same sweet smile that Nova always had on her face. There was that resemblance there, from the bunny teeth and round cheeks, however the rest of Nova’s face held something much more sharper and distinct; maybe in the way Nova’s mouth would curve in a crooked slack or her eyes lowered in a heavy gaze.

Something… something a bit more familiar to Mando.

As if he's seen it before.

“A Mandalorian,” she beamed weakly, pushing back her hair from her face. The corkscrews fell down to curl at her waist. “ _ Su'cuy. _ ”

Mando sucked his breath. “You speak Mando’a?”

She chuckled and sat forward. “Only here and there. From what my husband taught me. This child, he is yours?”

The child cocked his head to the side, watching her reach a finger to pet his cheek. 

“Yes he is,” Mando’s voice hinted with pride. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“I hope my daughter has spoken of me in positive terms,” she teased, grabbing her hand. “I’m not in the best condition to be outside with everyone so I apologize. She told me about your arrival, as a matter of fact she wouldn’t  _ stop  _ talking about it--”

“Mama!” Nova hissed, turning beet red. She turned her head away from Mando. 

“That is good, you know,” Maia reassured her daughter. “You have someone to talk to besides me.”

"I'm like you, I only hope in positive terms." he jostled back, earning a small cough from her.

"Y-Yes I did, Mando listen, what mama is saying is...!"

Maia stared at Mando while Nova rambled off an excuse for her storytelling. She didn’t notice if he was paying attention to her impolite staring nor did she care, however noticing the way his breathing would level out at his attentive nature to her daughter, as well as loosening the grip of his fists to lay flat on his sides. As her husband had said, a total sign of submission. Her stare was full of bittersweet ache and hinted at a satisfied conclusion. Her eyes mist with a gentle prodding of her weak nature, bubbling a small giggle when Nova clutched the child so hard in panic that it squealed. Mando reached out and grabbed the child from her, spilling apologies, ignored by her daughter’s incessant need to impress.

Part of her heart was interested in the mysterious enigma of the warrior, only basing her impression on the endless stories of the guest’s people and the way he interacted, unnaturally stiff yet soft. But the other half, swimming in affliction and burning salt, was focused on the sudden realization:

Nova and Mando mirrored the love she had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen... I've been ITCHING for Some Spicy Stuff so stay tuned!! We'll get there in a few chapters, I feel it!
> 
> Thank you for sticking around this incredibly slow burning fic, I'm dying with y'all haha
> 
> TRANS:  
> Su'cuy: hey, hello


	7. Nothing is Permanent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wondered if she knew what she had done to him, a maelstrom of agony and carnal starvation of affection brewing in his chest, breathing in her dew and piercing hale, completely destroying the lonely sanctuary he created for himself. And all she had to offer for penance was her curved lips and dancing fingertips on the rounded edges of his vambrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Gsb1xThdGZvA6sUgtRTUi?si=zhChAx2NQ6iJpYeN8zw3pw

Dantooine was… nice.

Nicer than Mando remembered. Over time planets simply became blurs of fluorescent bubbles, popping into the atmosphere with every passing blue-white whips of lightspeed, so it was hard to put any significance on something that passed so quickly. They were stretched thin and almost invisible to the touch, remnants of a memory that he couldn’t bring himself to give importance to. Constant visits to repeated planets became homes to him after a while, or at least what he perceived as a home besides the cold confines of the convent. He had his ways to personalize each compartment, be it through the judging gaze of the slimy cantina patrons on some backwater planet on some backwards rim or in the thick wool blankets on some run down desert planet that subjected his body to another layer of sweltering hell. Each memory held a trinket, a tangible piece of life that he could pin himself down while floating through space in his, in other’s perspective, piece of astral junk.

Dantooine was nice.

But what was so nice about?

He had stayed in Nova’s makeshift hut for two weeks, longer than Sorgan, yet still too brief to compare it to any bounties or breaks he’s had. However this time around there was no bounty puck holding him down, no sign of taut, anxious muscles and laxed jaw to stare him down the barrel of a blaster. Just cotton clouds and saturated sunrises, sounds of giggling children and running water through worn wooden buckets. Dantooine was comfortable. Dantooine, most importantly, was  _ safe. _

Dantooine had Nova.

Nova, in the filtered and dull gaze of Mando’s interest. Her, as delicate and light as the pollen of any frail and wild flower and relieving as the first breath of his free evenings, where the bugs scream and babies coo into the air, a sheer sweet beam in the simplest bursts. And yet even so, to the stoic Mandalorian, it made him utterly  _ weak,  _ so devastatingly scared of the way he allowed to lower his guard so low that she managed to groove into the compacted muscles of his firm chest, roosting a home wreathed of smiles and russet skin. He wondered if she knew what she had done to him, a maelstrom of agony and carnal starvation of affection brewing in his chest, breathing in her dew and piercing hale, completely destroying the lonely sanctuary he created for himself. And all she had to offer for penance was her curved lips and dancing fingertips on the rounded edges of his vambrace.

_ Pathetic, really. _

He leaned against the wooden fence, careful to tilt his gaze upwards but his eyes towards her while she tucked back a loose curl, picking up the child in her arms. Her eyes sunk in a bit deeper in the purple-blue rings, dipping into her high cheekbones, while her mouth was constantly dropping into a seemingly somber line. The child occasionally noticed her odd disconnect so he would squirm in her arms or whimper. She paid it no mind and Mando’s heart tightens a bit.

He clenched his jaw. “Are you alright?”

“Hmm?” she hummed back, turning to him. “What was that?”

“Are you alright?” Mando asked again, his tone tight. He folded his arms across his chest and walked towards her, careful and slow, watching the way her eyes squinted in thought. She hiked up the child on her hip, brushing off dust from her chest and sighed.

“I’m just tired,” she whispered, rubbing an eye. “Things… are not that good in my life, Mando.”

He offered his silence for her to continue. He tilted his head as a signal. “Mama hasn’t been doing so well with her health. Recently I heard her talking to some… man… he’s been contacting her for a while, I haven’t seen his name or anything but the way they talk, it’s as if they’ve known each other for a while. He… I’m sorry--”

“For what?” Mando quickly asked, taking her aback. She stared at him for a minute with glossy eyes, shaking her head. “What happened?”

She looked at the floor, grinding her heel into the dirt. “I don’t want to bother you with my issues, Mando--”

“You’re only bothering me but not telling me.”

Nova snapped her head up and gulped. His helmet tipped downward and observed the way her knees would rub together, finding any distraction from the conversation. Initially Mando wanted to grab her by the shoulders and hiss his requests, for her to stop being so  _ fucking scared  _ and trust the stranger that landed on her home only a few weeks that just so happen to harbor such a deep affection for her--

“He said that whatever my mom has, he can find a cure for. He has access to some medication from the underbelly of Coruscant that could help. I don’t know what to do,” she rubbed her forearms, rolling her neck. “It sounds shady to me.”

He nodded in agreement. It was shady, almost too specific for it to be a lie. Anyone could claim they had connections to the underbelly of Coruscant but from the way Nova’s voice trembled at the claim was enough to convince him. His chest rose and faltered with a sudden shaky breath, translating through his vocoder. She shot her head towards him with glossy eyes.

“Do you think I should be worried?” she whispered, chewing her bottom lip. 

“You haven’t seen his face?” he asked. 

“No, not at all. But you should hear the way Mama talks to him it’s…” she trailed off, leaning into the child. A wind picked up some loose dirt and danced it across her face, her hand cupping the side of the child’s face to shield him. “It’s like she’s known him for a long, long time. Her voice gets so light and she giggles like a child, it’s nice and all but…”

“She’s sick and you don’t want her to get her hopes up.” He confirmed.

Nova rubbed her lower eyelid. “Right. Get her hopes up.”

“Right.”

Mando could relate to a certain extent. 

* * *

Although she insisted time and time again that she was okay (“No Mando, seriously, go sit down over  _ there  _ and just… relax! Like a Mandalorian does!” “Like… Like a Mandalorian?” “Oh Maker, just listen to me!”), Mando couldn’t shake her words out of his head. Perhaps it was his foolish instincts again, his tendency to analyze every quipped syllable and shaking dip of her voice, to find an excuse that yes, you are correct, she  _ is  _ in some sort of peril and I  _ must  _ do something about it. His gaze fell upon the child who was bouncing alongside his ankles, chasing after a frog. As much as he wanted to do what she suggested and stay seated he figured he was better off reviewing his provisions on the  _ Razor Crest.  _ He rose up with a grunt and stride to Nova, who was bent over, picking up straw for the eopies.

“Hey,” he called to her, coughing awkwardly when she jumped a bit. “I’m going back to my ship--”

“Are you leaving?” she breathed, her eyebrows frowning. 

Her sudden outburst made his skin hot but he suppressed the inflection. “N-No. Well, I don’t know,” he bit his tongue, sighing deeply. “I’m checking on my supplies. See if I need to make my way into the city. Can you watch the kid for me?” 

Nova hesitated but then nodded, picking him up. She swallowed her apprehension and watched Mando shuffle away in the dust, left alone in her awkward silence. She wondered with great embarrassment if her question came off too exasperated or too desperate in its intention, but what made her skin flush hotter up to her ears was that she wouldn’t have said it any other way. Although his image still cowered the older women in gossip and the children in hushed, nervous giggles, he was a piece of the community. They addressed him as if him and his foundling were pillars of their structure and while the gesture was warm with its communal kindness, Nova did not want to get so used to the idea.

There was no use getting so used to warmth he would spread with the glimmering kisses of his beskar when the afternoon sun hit the angle just right, there was no use expecting his rumbling morning voice behind his vocador, crackling and rich with melodic honey, to wonder how his sleepy eyes would gaze upon her with the same intensity of the heat of the day, to wish that may be, somehow and somewhere in between then and the time transpired on her little village, he felt the same way about her. To feel the same, almost natural in some cases, nature to take care of each other, to find refuge only in the throbbing ribcages that smash together when they held each other, to swallow the liquid fire and spit it out in drunken confessions. 

“If mama can feel this way about a man she never met in person, who’s to say I can’t feel the same?” he bounced the child on her hip and nervously watched him blend into the horizon, the cool silver line cutting into the swaying trees and bees. The child cooed in response, his bottom row of teeth peeking through.

* * *

Mando’s ship creaked with each careful footstep he took. Thankfully everything was still in place and the ground protocols were not tampered with. He climbed up the ladder to his cockpit, squinting behind his visor at the high sun. Although he made it a habit to not return to his ship multiple times a day out of comfort he was dying to sink into the familiar groove of his seat, taking his fingertip to graze on top of his buttons. Each piece was grooved to his print, an extension of himself to this ‘floating garbage’. He stopped over the hologram component and pressed down, turning around to search the rest of his ship for inventory.

“Mando! I hope this message comes to you safely, I heard from the Guild that you, uh, got into some trouble recently.”

The gruff voice was familiar to him yet he continued to peel off a random crate’s lid, digging his palms into the splinters.

“I’m communicating with you through a discreet and rogue comm so there’s no need to worry about tracking. But if you get this message, I wanted to extend you a warning on a recent bounty that you had… Dario Creed sounds familiar?”

Mando froze, his grip tightening around a glass bottle. A cold sweat crept up the space between his exposed neck and collar, contrasting from the burning liquid in his taut muscles. He looked towards the cockpit and watched the blob of white-blue light sway back and forth.

“Well word around here is that he’s been communicating with someone on Dantooine. Not sure what for but your location has been compromised. I’m the only one that knows about this since I’m the one that caught the bastard, but if you’re still on Dantooine you need to leave as soon as possible. He said that if--”

The comm died down with a sharp screech. Mando rushed to the cockpit and slammed the table, trying to balance the quality of the message but it died down with a defeated hiss. Mando grunted in frustration, punching the control panel with one hefty movement. His fingers throbbed with a throbbing pulse but he kept going, his bitterness flooding down with each selfish punch. Then he froze, shoulders pulled back and teeth baring, slacking his jaw at the truth the messenger leaked.

He’s been in contact with  _ someone.  _ That someone told him about his location, about the child, possibly every single detail in between. That  _ someone _ \--

An echo of a knock pulled Mando upwards, pointing his blaster towards the dark hallway. His breath was shaky when he made his way slowly towards it, gripping his blaster so hard that his leather gloves groan. The sudden break of baby cries snapped him from his defense and he rushed to the ladder, stretching his neck down to take a peak.

“Mando, I’m sorry!” Nova cried out, her soft voice shushing the child. “He was fine for a while but I can’t seem to calm him down!”

Mando sighed and journeyed downwards. The child’s face was wet with gulps of tears, its screams high pitched and whining up and down from her bouncing. As soon as it saw its father it swallowed the rest of his protest, whimpering with its arms up. Nova watched as Mando picked it up with careful arms, tilting her head to the side. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked suddenly.

He hummed in response. “What do you mean?”

“You seem very tense. You grabbed the child as if he was made of glass.”

“Is that any different than before?”

The edge in his voice hitched his question into a soft chuckle. His annoyance with the sudden judge of character left him to stare back at her. Although his hidden gaze was hot she kept on searching for her reflection, warped and blown up from the marigold rays outside, twirling a piece of string between her fingers. She narrowed her eyes at him and sank her shoulders.

“Am I bothering you?” she whispered almost to herself. His head shot up from his lowered gaze, staring past her, past the issue at hand.

“What makes you think that?” Her eyes faltered to the floor. “No. You’re not bothering me.”

He contemplated brushing her away, to let her roost and bubble in the what-ifs that seem to eat away at her throat. Serves her right for being nosy right? For thinking she could ease her way into him with wet lashes and flashes of white teeth, chewing on his heart as if she had the right, the absolute gall to muster up the courage to care for a stone cold man like him?

However he wouldn’t be as better off as her.

“I may have to leave Dantooine,” he announced, his voice cracking. 

“Forever?” she bounced back. 

A beat. “Yes.”

“A-Are you in danger? Maybe if you hide in the city, there will be more of you there, or maybe y-you can travel to another planet, lay low, a-and come back--”

“I don’t know if I can--”

“Well, can you  _ try _ ? Or s-something? You just can’t come into my life and leave like that--”

Nova clamped her mouth shut. The only sounds were the singing insects and the coos of the child, who was chewing on its fingers. The air was stiff and heavy, as if the small confession had substance to it, as if it had calloused hands and sharp nails to dig into their skin. She gulped back the rest of the words, the slime of it coating her throat, releasing its gas into a tired sigh. As if he couldn’t get more tense his spine erected painfully upward, only allowing himself to do one thing: watch. Watch as she cradled her body against herself, watch as she concealed herself around him, making herself smaller to avoid whatever was going to transpire, watch her tilt her head back and forth with the lost words that he just  _ wished  _ she would spill.

He realized a truth, so strong and so deafening it left him lock jawed, heavy tremors threatening to break his bones: he was in love. In love in the way it punches the air out of your lungs with a swift force, a love that, somewhere in that chaos that brewed inside of him, rippled and thin with tears, her sugar spun words made him float along the galaxy in sweet refuge. 

And it scared the kriff out of him.

He wanted to compact the feeling and crush it in between his boots, let it pick up with the wind and dust and matter of the world to disappear with the rest of humanity’s footprints. He suddenly loved her in the way he lived, crazed and electric and imbalanced, tripping over inky dips of valleys and clutching onto his adrenaline like a saving grace. He watched his visor flood with the emotion, allowing him to swell his lungs with it, colored with whirlpools of dusky pink and russet brown.

He took a step forward and she took a step back. One more between them, the awkward dance hitching their lungs with apprehension. She took a step forward, her hand extending forward with a shaking invitation. With great hesitance she cupped the curve of his helmet, feeling the cool beskar stab into her sweltering skin, crawling her fingers to dig into the groove of the metal.

He stumbled upon the next truth when she leaned forward, lashes heavy with sneaking shy gazes: he could live with it, the pursuit, the danger, the absolutes of the mystery, to be with her, within the colors of the emotion, to simply bask and bath in it like the next baptism into his future life, to live drunk on the sheer possibility and blissfully ignorant idea that she, in her desperate pursuit, loved him too.

“Where you go I follow.”

“I can’t ask you to do that--”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m telling you. I can help with the child.”

“Nova--”

“Wherever you go. I’ll follow.”

The cicadas cried their song, dying down in a small whine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh it's been a while!! So sorry for completely disappearing off the face of the earth, I've been going through some tough times. I'm better now and will be more active, I have so many ideas to not let go to waste!
> 
> Sorry that this chapter was super duper slow, I just wanted to get it out there but I promise they'll be more ~spice~ coming your way! Also sorry if it's a mess, will be back to edit it haha


	8. Your Grey Phantom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tight ship,” she offered. “Must be lonely in such a tight space.”  
> “... Was a lonely place until the kid came along.”  
> “Such a lonely ship in such a huge place like space.”  
> “You’re not wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Gsb1xThdGZvA6sUgtRTUi?si=zhChAx2NQ6iJpYeN8zw3pw

“Mando I…” Nova began, grinding her jaw together. She had said too much, her guts spilled too early in the dirt for her to pick it back up in licking defeat. 

Nova’s heart was in her mouth, its arteries beating nervous words on her tongue. They were bitter and slick with apologies and excuses, her throat heaving with the half written apology that conjured the moment she asked to be with him. It was a manifestation of everything she held since seeing him, just the thick air of confession rolling off her shoulders in tremors. She wondered if she was possessed, somehow exorcised by a benevolent spirit that shook her core and rattled the words in her belly like dice, drying her doubts with the stiff air. The confession wasn’t all the way an exaggeration, rather a sudden change of character. A change of personality, a change of… fate? Destiny? Some kind of cosmic collision that took the two lonely souls in its supernova and ate them whole?

Mando sighed and she shivered at the scratching sound, afraid of his sudden annoyance. Instead it was smooth and cool, even if the man was in absolute hot tremor. “Nova. Think this through. Y-Your mother, she’s sick and…”

“And what?”

_ Space is no place for a girl like you. _

“And what?”

_ You have no place with a man like me. _

“Mando… please, and what?”

“I live a dangerous life. That isn’t fair to you--”

“Oh, to me? A weak little village girl from some back water area of Dantooine?” She hissed, suddenly frustrated. She focused on the cicadas’ dying cries, swallowing her pride.

“I know you’re not weak. That’s not what I mean.” Mando sighed once more.

She looked up and searched for her reflection in his visor. “Then what  _ do you  _ mean, Mandalorian?”

Easier said than done, no? Easier to have her crack his skull open and let the yolk of his brain drip out, let her dig in the mess and find the meaning. That yes, please do come along, yes fill the phantom cracks of my pathetic  _ Razor Crest  _ and sleep in the shadows of my very soul, the same one I would bear for you if you even whispered it to me, to consume me even more of me than you already have in my short time here. He was used to making quick decisions with little time and yet even at that moment, where he had less time than a processed breath through a lung or a blink, he simply… 

He simply had no idea what he wanted.

He stared past her. “It wouldn’t be fair to you, or to your mother. You’re better off here.”

“And you?” A beat. “You’re better off here, too. You and the child. There is  _ no  _ reason for you to leave.”

“It’s just…” He was sick of the back and forth. “It’s not that easy for me to drop everything and stay.”

_ But wasn’t it in Sorgan? _

_ What makes this any different? _

Nova could not see his hidden scowl but sensed it in the strain of his words, so tight as if it was being pulled from his molars one by one. Her shame bubbled at the surface, bouncing off of each other in circles, and it frustrated her so greatly that she began to chew her bitterness between her cheeks to calm herself down. She didn’t see the selflessness and selfishness in her request in the way Mando did, she did not smell the sulfur of danger and unwarranted responsibility that he did. His hand twitched at his side, his leather glove sudden becoming his second layer of skin.  _ A warning.  _ His body’s natural hesitation to the rigid affection coursing through him. 

“Should I just drop it?” Nova whispered. Mando said nothing, simply shifting side to side. She mimicked the same motion, hers knocking her knees together.

She shouldn’t have asked such a stupid question.

Mando sputtered when she turned her hip to walk away. “Wait--” She allowed him to continue with the cock of her brow. “Just… think about it a bit more. Really consider what you’re asking of me. Can you do that for me?”

She sighed deeply, her body shaking off sprinkles of anxiety. “What else is there for me to think about, Mando?”

“Just!” he suddenly exclaimed, raising his hands in defense. He then rested them on his belt. “Listen. Can we come to a compromise?”

“What would you consider to be a compromise?”

_ Yes, Mandalorian, what would you consider to be a compromise? _

“Are you worried about your mother?”

A beat. “Perhaps.”

_ Now you’re being difficult.  _ “Let’s figure out her situation. My way. Then we’ll see.”

She raised both brows and chuckle. “Is this a certain Mandalorian test or something?”

“If you want to consider it like that, yes,” he volleyed back. He watched her reaction, her eyes scanning the dancing dirt below. The child stirred in her arms, cooing to no one. 

Finally she shrugged. “Okay. But promise me something?”

He hummed. “Regardless what happens… the outcome, or whatever… don’t leave without me on this ship. Even if it’s not with you, don’t. Okay?”

_ Wouldn’t dream of it.  _ “We’ll see.”

* * *

Mando wished that he told Nova to leave but he didn’t have the heart to tell her, especially the look in her eyes while she peered into the ship. He wanted to listen to that message over and over. Wanted to get the words etched into his skin, to see the words when his eyes closed, burned into his lids, to hear only the cracked voice when he was asleep. Time and time again it’s been proven to him that he was incapable of having some kind of normalcy, to settle in the idea of a comfortable life, but it was the least of his worries. 

“This is your ship?” she asked, her voice low with curiosity.

“If you can call it that,” he joked, waving his hand to signal for her to come in. “Watch your step.”

He pretended to search in an open crate but from the corner of his eye he observed her watery eyes, their saccharine shine blinking away from the slivers of sunlight. The child wiggled in her arms so she let him go, letting him waddle and chirp to Mando. 

“I’ve never been in a ship like this,” she marveled, taking careful steps. “A Mandalorian’s ship I mean.”

“We travel within our means,” he explained, lifting a crate with a grunt. “If it takes me from point A to point B, that’s all I need.”

“Hmm… I suppose, but…”

Nova whipped around and placed her hands on her hips with a smirk. She circled another set of crates and gazed upon a closed door, pursuing her lips in thought. “This  _ is _ a piece of junk.”

Mando could scoff at her sudden judgement but she wasn’t entirely wrong. Coming from her it meant a bit more, with that edge of her giggle. The child mimicked her reaction next to his ankles, cocking his head upwards. Wind picked up in the hull of the ship while she searched further, twirling her pulled back hair in between her fingers. Mando watched her twirl in her spot, looking up the ladder and standing on the balls of her feet to get a better look.

“This is the piece of junk you so badly want to leave in,” he decided to tease, however immediately sinking in his boots at her reaction.

Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth and her eyes had that familiar glisten, lashes slightly wet. She rolled her shoulders into her face and wiped her cheek on the fabric.

“Don’t tease me like that, Mando,” she sincerely murmured, trying to play off the bitter emotion with another forced giggle.

He wasn’t being that mean… was he? It was an honest joke, nothing more than what Nova would offer him back, accompanied by flushed skin and jerked limbs into his shielded ribs. Nothing but honest banter between two acquaintances, two strangers that may or may not be so infatuated with each other it’s dizzying--

It’s a joke. Right?

Before Mando could offer an apology or a change in conversation she placed both feet on the stairs, pulling herself upwards to the cockpit.

“B-Be careful, mind your step--” Mando repeated before pausing when the bottom of her dress fluttered up her legs, exposing a bit more of sunkissed flesh. He pretended to shuffle against the stairs with his back to her, ignoring the sudden rush of heat from the base of his neck.

_ Maker, you’re acting like you’ve never seen a woman’s legs before. _

Nova stood still in the middle of the cockpit, bringing a hand up to cover part of her vision from the orange sun. She was still stinging from Mando’s not so harsh joke but she couldn’t help but gape at the curved sight of Dantooine, its sweet green hills encompassed by the warmth of the sun. Dust danced from the controls, swirling upwards and out, shining a rather dull gleam along the more polished bits of the ship. She looked down at Mando’s seat, worn and cracked, the cushion of it molded to his broad shape. She peered upwards and wondered how someone as burly as Mando could fit in a ship (junk?) like this, let alone a small alien child.

And maybe someone else.

Couldn’t possibly work out.

She did not hear his steel boots walk behind her, awkwardly placing his hands on his hips. He waited for her to make her witty diagnosis but she peered her head over her shoulder, resting her chin.

“Tight ship,” she offered. “Must be lonely in such a tight space.”

“... Was a lonely place until the kid came along.”

“Such a lonely ship in such a huge place like space.”

“You’re not wrong.”

He had no energy to argue something as small as how he felt in space; why did that matter in the slightest bit to her? Mando deduced that she was being overly sweet to sneak a ticket onto the ship. Just like everyone else he’s allowed to sit on that seat, always wanting something, always needing something. Greedy and dirty things have crawled on his ship, have dragged their slime across datapads and holes and screws. They have slithered into his helmet with promises,  _ oh here are more credits if you pass through this channel with no open comm  _ or  _ take me to Tatooine or this blaster will melt your brain off, helmet head.  _

The usual evilness. That’s what he told himself to slowly glue back his broken ribs at the heavy paranoid thought that she’s just using him.

Yet, her observation rested heavy on his shoulders, sinking into the already staggering weight of his beskar. Maybe a pretty little thing like her wasn’t lying. He noticed when she did she would scrunch her nose upwards like a small rabbit, squinting into her lie with fluttering lashes. Nothing in her appearance at that moment, wet lashes and slacked jaw, indicated she was lying to him. Not even in the way her voice would drip with a pathetic whine, a sound that would surely taste sweet to him if circumstances were different.

Truth is, he wanted to say yes. Pull her on the ship and say screw it, circle the galaxy in chipped circles with his motley crew, visiting abandoned moons and bustling marketplaces. To slip exotic salted berries in her mouth from places she’s never heard before, to watch her twirl feathers and leather, to lick the glass of expensive Correllian wine, to watch her sunshine smile outdo the twin suns of Tatooine.

Just like that, just like goddamn Sorgan, it was all a dream. 

He looked down at the empty seat, promptly looking away to prevent his daydreaming. Maker, it was hard, so hard to not see Nova in every crease of this ship now. She should’ve never said anything, he concluded, watching the way her arms swung back and forth to land on the head of his seat. She wrapped her legs together and he saw them on the seat, intertwined with blankets, reading a child’s story to the kid. She cocked her head to the side and he saw her move along with the story, bubbling animated voices to gauge the child further. She turned around and looked at the top of his helmet, like she always did when she was afraid to face the terrifying man after all this time.

“When I asked you if I could come along, I hope you know it wasn’t because I was purposely trying to leave.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

“To be honest I don’t think I could ever leave Dantooine. My mother, she’s all I have you know. The village raised me but they’re not mama. They’re not my mama. And to leave that, well, I don’t know. I think I just so caught up the thought of…”

Nova trailed off, swallowing the strong weight in her throat. She did not know why she felt compelled to spill more of herself forward to the bounty hunter. Wolves never showed their throats to their enemies when resisting, so why should she offer him the same opportunity? It was embarrassing as is with her usual incessant blabbering, however the words kept spilling out and her arms flailed to her side in an attempt to scoop them back up.

“I just feel like there’s more to the galaxy than… this! Than farming eopies and cleaning dirt barns and crafting clay bowls! I know I can amount to  _ something,  _ I just…”

“Don’t know what yet,” he concluded for her.

“Yes. I don’t know.”

She looked away from the stiff man and stared out the window. The sun was finally descending down, ripples of reds and magentas coloring the sky. Mando did not know what to say so he allowed her to stand there, soaking in the dusky rays. There was a sudden heaviness in the air, the same way one would feel when traveling through space for the first time. A compressed pressure, swelling in your joints, yet so weightless in its effort to keep you grounded. That’s what this was between them, a pull between what was considered right and wrong, horrible and wonderful, frigid cold or licking hot. 

Without any words they felt the split between them, the two worlds colliding and rocking against each other like frigid hands in prayer, seeking out to the Maker the answer. The setting sun set on her good side, the side where another scar made its debut, milky white and cavernous. He felt compelled to reach out to her, to dig his covered fingertips into the rigid curves of the cut, but once he did she flinched hard. Her back hits the commanding chair, her hand raising up to cover her chest. 

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“Is it about my scars?”

He gulped. “Yes.”

Nova sent him a small yet somber smile, waiting for his hand to fall back down to his side. She reached for it, dancing her slim fingers across the scar, then stopping to hold her elbow in comfort. She turned around and took a step towards the Mandalorian, unaware of his shivering nature underneath his beskar, lowering her eyes to look at his hand.

As slowly as she could, she reached out for his hand. His own twitched at his side, flexing in the leather grasp, wondering if he allowed her to grab it that his skin would melt from the anticipation. She gauged his reaction and continued forward, first wrapping three fingers around his thick wrist. He twitched again to avoid her touching his real skin. He didn’t want to give her anything tangible about him. He didn’t want her to perceive him as a beating heart and hot blood, only as a phantom that will wisp away into the night when she least expected.

“Do you want to touch it?”

She dropped his hand on the top of her shoulder. The honey in her eyes deepen its golden hue from her languid blinks, lips bitten red and swollen, the glistening russet color of her skin much more gilded from the backdrop. At that moment the rush of her red hot blood snapped him back to reality, in the same way her greeting smile did when he first landed, taking this as a sign that maybe this is  _ exactly  _ what he wanted.

His large palm was splayed across her broad shoulder, fingers spreading to encompass more flesh, so greedy and so selfish, taking his wrist upwards to bend at the curve. Up close he saw that it was deeper than anything he had seen in a whole, noting that she didn’t use bacta to heal such a cut. It almost seemed calculated, like the cut was on there to watch the flesh split in two, bubbling and curling from whatever device was used. In fact it was so deep that from the angle he was looking down from it made an indent in her skin, a chunk of it missing near her bicep.

“H-how did you get this?” he hissed through his vocador suddenly. “ _ Who  _ did this?”

“That’s the thing,” she whispered. “I don’t remember. I’ve asked my mother what happened but she’ll never tell me.”

He scoffed, not at her confession but at the sheer thought that someone could take something so… so…  _ ethereal  _ and hurt it. Anger began to bubble in his belly, skipping coals in his rib cage. She suddenly took his wrist, rubbing her thumb along the stitching of his glove, looking up at him. She chewed on her cheek, watching her reflection twist in his visor.

“I have more scars. Some deeper than others, but not as bad as this one. Do you want to see them?”

She stepped back to step on his seat, letting go of his wrist to pull up her dress. He shivered at her slow ministrations, taking the time to bundle the cloth in small fistfuls, rolling up to halfway up her thigh. The scar was a bit similar but not as deep, silver and intimidating contrasting against her skin, however this one had more curve to it. This one had more character, as if it was taking its time to be etched in her skin, sunken and twisted along her knee. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, yet he stood perfectly still, so still she wondered if he simply shut down.

“This one I remember,” she recounted. “This one was when I was in the capital. I wasn’t watching where I was going and fell into a pile of scrap metal. Took two men to dig me out without creating more damage.”

“Wow.” was all he could offer.

“Do you… do you want to touch it, too?”

_ Yes. _

This time she observed his hand hesitate to move forward, mechanical in its effort to act like it was manned by an actual sentient being, stopping at the roll of her knee. She leaned forward to make contact, keeping her eyes on the shine of his helmet. His thumb slowly felt the curve of the scar, forefinger and middle finger resting on the indent of her knee, crawling forward to rest on the underside of her thigh.

His whole body was bubbling lava, his stomach straining and flexing underneath his thermal clothing. He wondered if his body and mind were overreacting from the touches or that her sweet skin was always this  _ warm _ . He wanted to sink his hand further into her thigh, to sink his entire body in the pool of her tepid liquid. 

The scream of cicadas got louder, along with his strained heart, his hand circling up to the end of the scar. His eyes wavered in his skull and she took his hand once more. His head shot up to look at her in the eyes, regretting the exact moment he did.

Her eyes held something he had never seen in anybody else. Wet lashes hid something dangerous, something that could bring grown men to tears. A nurturing warmth, almost as if she was holding him in her arms, syrupy and gentle. She had eyes that shined brighter than any gem he’d ever seen or that he’ll ever see, expanding his lungs into exhaling his held breath. He felt pathetic, so weak that a simple, innocent touch could bring him to mercy.

She placed his palm on her cheek. Mando wanted to rip off his gloves to gather her shining hair into his fingers, to smell its sweet strands, to graze against the peach fuzz that rose from his ministrations. She cocked her head slightly to show the first scar he saw on her, a faint line down to her jaw, turning back when he suddenly tightened his grip. She swallowed, closing her eyes to melt into the smell of worn leather and dirt, her mouth salivating at the thought of his hand underneath. Was it calloused, from weather and wear, was it soft or was it scar littered like her body? What stories he could tell with those hands, the same ones that killed and at that moment cradled her face. She wanted it burned into her skin, another notch of scattered memories.

He stepped closer. She lowered her leg. One more step, this time his boots scraping against the worn floor. Spine curved down, shrinking her shivering frame. One step back. Closer and closer, until her chest was flushed against his chestplate, breasts pressed against the metal. 

The child squealed from below them, demanding attention. She gasped and dashed towards the stairs, calling for him. The sky painted his beskar in deep indigo, the color filling his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha... it's uh been a while lmao, life once again took me by the reigns! But I'm getting back on track, I also anticipate more projects!! 2020 hasn't taken me down yet haha
> 
> Thank you as always!!


	9. Just Two Favors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can I.. ask you something?”
> 
> “You can ask me anything, my baby!” she dripped with exaggerated happiness.
> 
> Nova searched for the right way to address the sudden tightness in her chest, dancing along the edge of being outwardly blunt and speaking in code. She toyed with the knife between her fingers, wiping the excess juice on the cloth.
> 
> She scooted closer to her mother and watched her slip a slice of jogan fruit in her mouth. “How come you don’t… talk about my dad?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Gsb1xThdGZvA6sUgtRTUi?si=zhChAx2NQ6iJpYeN8zw3pw

Nova left Mando to his own devices after their encounter.

Although he insisted she’d leave the child on the  _ Razor Crest _ , she’d wished she put up a bigger fuss than just shrugging it off. The walk back to her home was as awkward as his stuttering hands on her thighs and twice as hot, the cooling winds of the evening kissing her damp skin. Her mind piled up spotted memories in a large ball, flossed snapshots of his hand snaking up her limbs crossing with each blink. She had wondered whether or not she took it too far this time, putting too much trust in a mysterious man who only goes by the name of his people, but her prickled skin knew for a fact that it was… okay.

It was  _ okay. _

The way his hand slotted against her body like that. It was okay.

The way his words curled at the thought of her skin being tainted, it was okay.

It all felt too natural and laxed, as if they have been doing this for ages. She shook from the tremors of her sudden bitter guilt, as if it was her fault. As if it didn’t feel devilishly  _ good  _ to have his hands, so warm and so wide, encompassing her lonely skin. She sighed into the air, looking over the hills of her planet, craving the confirmation that she wasn’t going crazy, that he felt the same way.

“The same way?” she whispered to an eopie that pushed its face into her chest while locking the gate. “How dumb.”

As she approached her home, dimmed a low yellow, her attention snapped back to her mother. For someone as gentle and poorly as Maia was, Nova felt for the first time in her life a whim of doubt in her. Mothers needed to be selfless and kind, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing and as hard as steel, an absolute beacon of love. All she knew was this land and her community, her mother especially, so she had convinced herself that everything she wanted to give to her was for her benefit. And as much as she loved her mother to death, she simply knew  _ nothing  _ about.

Nova rubbed her lips together in thought, pushing one more stack of hay against the fence. She considered going to see Selia before she turned in for bed; if a woman knew as much information as a Coruscanti library, it would be her. However, just like not knowing who her mother truly was, she had no idea how she would react. The sudden anxiety of secrecy distracted her from her mother’s calls, which seemed to crack along the clay walls of her home. 

She snapped her head upwards and called back. “Hold on mama, I’m sorry!” 

Doubt followed her heavy footsteps to the door, revealing Maia on the floor of the kitchen. With a knife in one hand and jogan fruit in the other, juice dripped down her stick legs and onto the floor. She hissed at the stickiness and tried to clean it up until Nova grabbed the rag from her.

“What are you doing on the floor?!” she exclaimed, grabbing a plate.

“I wanted some fruit, don’t worry,” she waved her hand down. “Come sit here with me, like you used to when you were a baby.”

“Do you miss it? When I was a baby?” Nova asked, pursing her lips.

Maia nodded. “Oh of course, what mother wouldn’t? You were so cute and so plump, like a little round ball!”

She sighed with an exhausted smile on her face. Nova remembered her full cheeks stained with cherries and tears, clutching a bowl of fruit to her chest, while her mother cleaned the dirt from her face. At the time her mother had a radiance on her like no other, reminding her of pearls and aqua waves, skin plump and smooth. She crossed her legs in front of her, a dimmer light of who she used to be, gently wiping her skin down.

“Your father used to love pinching your cheeks, you would look like a little peach every time, too.”

_ Father.  _

Father. A word unspoken between those walls, thick with uncharted foliage, almost as heavy as an omen. A passing wind that would nip at your skin, a winter’s kiss. The smog from the capital’s building, dancing up to blend in with robin egg sky. A whisper among the crowd, even a drowning wave in the middle of a storm.

It took Nova off guard to have her mother mention it so casually in conversation, considering that when she was younger and posed the question of his whereabouts, tears stung her mother’s eyes and closed her throat. He’s seen in spots of light and slow blinks, blurred around the edges, and at times Nova even questioned if she even knew he existed in the first place, just a passing moth through a flame.

She took it as a curse, lacing that word with venom and letting it simmer in her belly until it burned holes in her.  With that new weight on her shoulders, she continued to cut her fruit, finding ways to bring up her questions by each curve of the knife. Maia’s eyes soften at the thought, her gaze glazed past her daughter and past the clay walls, her scared image of that sacred man for her secrecy only. Nova decided to ignore the obvious slip of her rose-colored glasses, handing her a plate of sliced fruit.

“Mama,” she began, swallowing. Maia made no effort to look at Nova. “Mama.”

“Yes, my sweet?” she finally answered the second time, blinking rapidly.

“Can I.. ask you something?”

“You can ask me  _ anything,  _ my baby!” she dripped with exaggerated happiness.

Nova searched for the right way to address the sudden tightness in her chest, dancing along the edge of being outwardly blunt and speaking in code. She toyed with the knife between her fingers, wiping the excess juice on the cloth. 

She scooted closer to her mother and watched her slip a slice of jogan fruit in her mouth. “How come you don’t… talk about my dad?”

The silence was so dense, like tar pulling a body down, dripping deep and dark. Practically no noise came from the kitchen, except the buzzing of the generator outside and Nova’s heavy breaths. She had stepped on a landmine and kept her weight on it, afraid to fall off balance or add more pressure, completely lost in her mother’s stoic reaction. Maia felt her mouth twist up with a particular sourness, only generated from the thought of  _ him,  _ however it wasn’t in fear of what he had done.

It was of who he was.

“Nova, I don’t--” she began until Nova shook her head.

“No, no,  _ no,  _ I am  _ not  _ a child anymore. I want answers, I don’t even know who he is--”

“-- you what? Nova, of course you know who he is.”

Nova saw stars in her vision. The way her tone was, as if she was being absurd, as if she wasn’t patronizing her own child but a stranger, made her bones settle into something tragic.  She frowned her brows. “What are you even talking about, Mama? Are-Are you sick?”

“Oh don’t patronize me, Nova,” she sneered, rolling her eyes. “I am doing fine.”

“But what do you  _ mean,  _ I don’t even-- I--” she stuttered, throwing the knife and cloth on the floor. 

Now confusion swam at her side, licking her heels in hot pursuit. It worsened when she stared at her with slight offense, now her arms crossed her chest to chastise her. All at once Nova wanted to abandon the conversation, yell until she was purple or even cry in childish confusion, but she continued her steel gaze to Maia.

“I’m being so serious right now, Mama. I don’t… Did I knew him? When I was younger?”

Maia’s eyes watered suddenly, her long bottom lashes clumping together. Nova watched in apprehension as her cheeks began to sink into an apple red, embarrassment coloring her chest the same color, her paper thin hands wrinkling her dress. Nova scooted closer but Maia scooted back, sucking in air between clenched teeth.

“Mama… please,” she whispered, taking her plate from her shaking hands. “You never talk about him. You don’t have to tell me much but I just want to know… Have you… been talking to him recently?”

She opened her mouth to speak but instead blinked away tears, droplets landing in the corner of her mouth. How did she lose her composure so quickly? Maybe she reminisced too deeply, felt the warmth of her past lover’s touch between hers and their child, completely enthralled in their picture perfect paradise that she failed to see that the image was burned at the edges.

“Mama!”

She raised her hands in defeat. “Nova stop! Yes, I’ve been talking to him again. Is that what you want to hear? Is that such a big deal? I wanted to keep it a secret until he came, so you can see him again.”

The sudden venom from her voice stung her skin, open with wounds and leaking with blood. The air was dizzying at this point, Nova’s nose pinched with frustration, until she exhaled shakily, gathering herself to sit on her heels. She stared at her mother with a serious disdain, almost as if she was her enemy, shoulder curled inside her chest.

“Mama… I don’t like the sound of that,” she warned.

“When he comes you  _ have  _ to give him a chance, he left when you were so  _ small  _ and I know that he would love to see the young woman you’ve become--”

“Mama, I don’t--”

“-- what’s even better is that he said he can take me to get treatment. B-Better than what Dantooine can offer, b-better t-than whatever I’m getting in his house! He said he can take me to places like Coruscant, Naboo, Maker he even mentioned--”

“ _ Mama-- _ ”

“Why can’t you see that I’m doing this for the both of us! For you to see your father, for me to see my husband! D-Don’t you want to make your mother happy? What is the matter with that?!”

Clay cracks on the hard floor. Splinters of the russet brown material splay across, tucking in between walls and cracks, along with sticky juice and purple flesh. Her knuckles were stark white and her spine ached with a foul defeat, her skin splitting with an alter ego she never knew existed. An ego that felt pure hot bubbling lava toward her one tangible string to the world, who was once bathed in sunlight but carried no shadow, who had her eating from the palm of her hand when all it was the entire time was scraps. Who she knew did not exist.

As always, Nova offered humility. “Can I first know more about him? From you?”

Maia exhaled a sharp breath. The taste of jogan fruit laid bitter on her tongue.

* * *

_ Well word around here is-- is-- _

_ \--our location has been compr--omised. I _

_ He said that if-- if-- if-- _

“Dank farrik!”

The child jumped from Mando’s fist hitting the panel. The mechanic on the last planet must’ve exaggerated on the repairs and inflated the price, that slimy piece of work, and judging by the way the communicative wires were squeezed together with half-ass effort, he could’ve done it himself. As with many issues on the  _ Razor Crest,  _ he pushed it aside for another day, focusing on the message at hand and an upcoming migraine.

Sure, there were bounties or friendlies of bounties that have chased him around the galaxy. They have stalked him in cantinas, hid behind crates and in between the cracks of the alleyways, stinking of rancid revenge. A body is a body, a body is a bounty, a bounty creates credits, and if one thing mattered in the game was just that. If there were to be personal grudges it was temporary or between each other in the Guild, which he had also had his fair share in. 

But the sheer animosity from Dario just seemed too… intimate. As if history was the tight bound around their waists, pulling them apart to split in two. Dario’s crooked fingers dug too deep into Mando’s brain and he did not like that one bit. There were other things to waste brain cells and effort on, like fixing the communicative system or going into Dantooine’s capital for resources or even--

_ Nova. _

His chest shook with the taste of her name sitting in his throat. He didn’t realize he had said it out loud when the child peeped next to him in the middle of him chewing his necklace. He hadn’t given himself time to fully digest the situation at hand either; his natural autopilot allowed him that kind of luxury. Just to let the moments smooth over him like salty waves on rocks, coating the surface and changing its shape but nothing too strong, nothing that could change the mold he held together tightly behind his beskar. He had made that mistake with the child, the mistake of attachments and unconditional protection, he’d be damned to Mustafar and back if he let it happen again. 

Her hot skin still burned holes through his glove. He could still feel the weight of it, the trail of texture and supple delicacy, getting hotter and hotter with each unreal step she allowed him to tread. And how foolish to do something like that, a dangerous man like him with a woman like that, who only spilled sunlight at him. How foolish, how utterly and completely idiotc that she would even  _ consider  _ his faults, how he would watch her spine erect like a great tree to cut pass the sun, to encompass him in a shadow that he already found refuge in, how even in dreams she didn’t sound half as lovely as she did in person.

. It was a haunting gesture she gave him, a taste of a forbidden garden he knew he could  _ never  _ have access to. He found himself leaning back on the head of his seat, elbows cocked at his side. His chest vibrated with his mind, already a frenzy of bees knocking against the honeycombs, steady yet heavy breaths escaping his nose. 

With this sheer physical torture, it must be her fault. He deduced this while kneeling down to check the wiring underneath the panel as a means to distract himself. Yes, it is Nova’s fault, it is completely in her foolish disregard to entertain his sickly pink imagination! He is a jester and she is laughing it up, eating up the sheer comedy of it all, that a senseless man like him that can only offer a journey through empty space in floating trash to someone who deserved more than what the vastness could offer.

He grunted when his head hit the underside of the panel. 

_ What a waste of time. _

* * *

“I just can’t do it tonight Selia, I’m so sorry,” Nova strained while holding her stomach. 

The elder cocked a brow upwards, watching her wince forward. The middle of the fire pit was alive with playful children and dancing spices, surrounded by clay plates and fresh vegetables. She leaned against the door and snuck a glance behind her, seeing Maia leaning against a gathering of pillows. The energy emanating from the house was strong yet awkward, being held back by Nova’s nervous nature. She groaned to add to her lie, doubling over slightly.

“Not feeling okay?” she commented, her gaze back to her strained smile.

“No, I think I ate something bad earlier today,” she sighed, gulping a thick film coating her mouth. “I think Mama did too.”

Selia hummed. “I’ll save some bone broth for you. How about that Mandalorian with that baby, is he hungry?”

Nova looked up toward the hills, the ship’s dull edge cutting through the horizon. Her face flushed with great heat at the mention of him, which was noticed by Selia the instant it erupted, however she merely smirked. She sighed and rested her hand on her shoulder, rubbing her thumb through the joint. Nova blinked and looked down at the woman.

“Why don’t you go and offer him some food,” she rushed, patting the space between her shoulder blades. “He’s been up there for quite a bit of time.”

“Yeah I should...” Nova trailed off, looking down to her legs. Wind picked up from her ankles and danced along the fabric of her dress, revealing a burning sliver of her scar. 

Selia took a step back and watched Nova stare at the ship, its haunting song calling her name. Her body was hesitant but her eyes watered at the sight, longing to connect the joints to move as fast her mind, however she instead chewed on her bottom lip. 

Selia looked once more and saw Maia, similar to Nova except much slimmer and taller, dirt swirling up her ankles and around her legs. The ship was no longer there, just a silhouette of a man, shoulders strict and blooming chest, his right eye glowing a blue white, languid movements melting into the darkening sky. The image was settling a deep weight in her chest, the pressure stepping and grinding the pain into a crevice that she had hidden behind veins long ago.  _ The poor girl,  _ she remembered, her empathy bleeding for Maia as it was for Nova at that moment. It disappeared with a gust of wind like sand and soot, gathering in her sun aged eyes.

“Child!” she called when she noticed Nova beginning to walk away. Nova turned her head around and rested her chin on her shoulder, gazing at the floor. Selia stopped, tapping a finger to her temple. “Think.”

Nova turned around fully. “I’m sorry?”

“Think. But for yourself, my sweet. You are much too big for a place like this. Know your worth and think for yourself.”

Nova slowly nodded and kept walking up the hill, hips swinging with each careful step, allowing the wind to carry her upwards. Her knees wobble from her nerves and she cursed to herself when she missed a step, looking around with hot ears to see if anyone had noticed. Selia’s words had picked her up and although she didn’t have a clue what she meant, she knew that her wobbling voice had significance.

Just as she reached the top Mando exited the ship, the child close behind. Nova stopped and gasped a bit, feeling intrusive in his space, even after the fact her hidden boldness said so otherwise. She thought of a way to call him in the most relaxed way possible, until the child noticed her shadow creeping up. He cooed towards her and ran, arms up, causing Mando to abruptly stop and turn around. 

His hand rested on his blaster but he immediately dropped it at the sight of the child in Nova’s arms, cuddling his head into her chest. She smiled shyly and took a step toward him, careful and slow, waiting for him to fully turn his body to her.

Mando remarked that when she would curve into her shyness she would hide her face into her hair or clothes, curl into herself to seem smaller and docile. This was a different shyness, not like the embarrassing kind where her eyes would enlarge and mouth would spread in a large frown or when the attention was on her, bubbling giggles and waving arms. This was reservation, a kind of security that he can compare to his own armour, rigid with a false comfort.

_ She can’t be afraid of me. Can she? _

“Selia wanted to--”

“-- I heard the message--”

They staggered towards each other, words rolling out of their mouths carelessly. She offered an exhausted chuckle and so did he, his worn joints relaxing at the warmth of the sound.

“G-Go ahead,” he offered.

“Okay… we are having a community dinner. I wanted to offer you and the child some food when you come back down.”

“Thank you,” he paused at her gesture for him to continue. “I had to fix something on the ship, so I’m sorry for earlier--”

She waved her hand at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, so your apology is empty. Don’t fret over it, Mandalorian.”

The silence returned, the air dead with no movement and dull in a lukewarm blanket of humidity. Nova was afraid to look back up again, to seek her reflection in his chestplate, unaware that he was watching her with desperate eyes.  _ Just say something,  _ he begged, standing so still his knees locked in place,  _ change the subject, just don’t let it seem like I’m doing something wrong here. _

She propped the child on her hip, his claws gripping her dress. “So… Mama finally told me who she was talking to.”

“Oh yeah?” he earnestly asked, fixing his posture.

“Yeah. Apparently he’s uh, my father,” she breathed another laugh, rolling her eyes. “Says that he left me when I was still a baby so I didn’t ‘know’ who he was.”

Mando’s silence prompted her to continue. “They’ve been talking for some time. He says that he’s showing up to Dantooine in a few cycles, has to handle some business first and then coming for the two of us. Honestly Mando, I’m… nervous. I don’t even know who he is. Or what kind of person he is. What if he’s playing her for a fool? We got into an argument earlier too--”

“An argument?” he interrupted, stepping closer.

She bit her cheek and shook her head. “Maker, I'm talking too much! I shouldn’t be bothering you with trivial things, I’m so sorry--”

“Keep talking,” he rasped. “Go ahead.”

She inhaled the deep smell of earth, resting her cheek on top of the child’s head. “I feel like she’s hiding so much from me. And I don’t know if it’s for me or for her. Is she not telling me because she doesn’t want me to know or because she doesn’t want to remember? I’ve never felt this way towards her and it’s conflicting. She told me basic information but even that feels like an exaggeration.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want you to know because it can hurt you.”

She trailed the sunset down his helmet, blinking away the rings of white yellow, swallowing her response. “... You think so?” 

“Maybe.”

“Hmm. Maybe.”

Mando almost pitied her pure issue. Her feelings were bubbling at the edge of the glass but she kept herself steady, only open for the ones she loved and closed off from herself. A dedication of selfishness. A dedication to her innocence. Not everyone in the galaxy had that kind of moxie.

“May I ask a favor of you?” 

He stood back and considered her with a wavering gaze. “Depends.”

“I’m going to find out when he’s arriving in Dantooie. I’m thinking he’ll arrive at the capital but I don’t think I can do it by myself. Or without her being suspicious. Would you come with me?”

“As a bodyguard?” he snorted. “Why not wait for your mother?”

“I just  _ know  _ how she is. She looks at everything with these rose colored glasses and I don’t want him to come if he isn’t the man my mom thinks he is.” 

Slight frustration lodged in Mando’s throat. It seemed rather cumbersome to deal with in all honesty, as he refused to get involved in familial matters. However Nova stared at him with such anticipation, a glimmer of hope in her doe eyes, looking up at him as if he held all the answers to her woes, how could he deny that? His head turned back to his ship, then to Nova, resting his hands on his hips.

Dario Creed can wait.

“When do you want to go?” he sighed as she perked up.

“I’ll find out his arrival time. It’s a few cycles to the capital so we might have to travel beforehand, but I honestly….” she trailed off, however began to bubble a laugh. “I honestly didn’t think I’d get this far!”

At this Mando stifled a chuckle with her, amused by her sudden humorous fit. She dusted a free hand on her dress and looked at the ship, a content smirk on her face.

Day after day, when the golden hour bathed the planet and the winds cooled their skin, he could never get enough of her silhouette, its gentle and welcoming nature underneath his cold one. The same watery eyes, sunset after sunrise, lack of judgement and unreserved with an admiration, as if she’d known him her whole life and this was just another day in their intertwined beings.

“I don’t have money to give you--”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a way for you to pay it back to me,” he paused suddenly. “Actually, I think there’s a way you can repay me back. With two favors.”

She beamed up at him. “Name them!”

“I also need to get into the capital for an old bounty. You don’t have to be involved in any of it, I just need someone to watch the kid,” she nodded feverishly, crossing her arms. “And the second favor…”

“The second favor?”

“No matter what,” he drawls. “Don’t leave without me when you go find your father.”

Her skin flushed, a soft sigh escaping her parted lips. Nova playfully slapped his chestpiece, her laugh staggering awkwardly. 

_ Is this man flirting with me? _

“I think I can uphold that part of the deal,” she shrugged. She extended the same hand to him, dancing her fingers. “Come. Eat before we plan anything, yes?”

Mando stared at her open palm as if it was an inanimate object. Her thumb danced along her fingertips, wiggling playfully toward him. The slender bent of her wrist beckoned him further until she reached down to his wrist, wrapping her palm around it. He kept his head lowered but stared at her through hooded lids, mouth peeled in steady breaths, staying absolutely still. 

Nova felt that same heat she felt earlier that day, the kind that she still felt even past the day’s winds and flow, like a tepid kiss. And just like earlier, when his palms spread across her thigh with free purchase, their skin anticipated each other with shaking reliance. Her fingers crawled down his palm, flushed by the contrast of size, giving him a slight squeeze. The child laid his head back on Mando’s chest with a slight gurgle in his belly. 

Selia called for the two of them at the bottom of the hill. “Let’s hurry, before it gets cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA YES HELLO I AM ALIVE SO SORRY FOR THE SLOW UPDATES!!
> 
> Part of me wants to write about s2 Mando, part of me wants to write something nasty in this story, part of me wants to bring on the hurt and angst... I wonder what will kill me first lmao
> 
> Thank you as always!!


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